


Midnight Fix

by Hexanthine



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Blood and Violence, Bondage, Dubious Consent, Gore, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Rating May Change, Rough Sex, Sexual Violence, Smut, Stalking, Tags May Change, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25068322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hexanthine/pseuds/Hexanthine
Summary: A collection of ghostmyers oneshots and storylines. Open to requests.
Relationships: Danny "Jed Olsen" Johnson | The Ghost Face/Michael Myers
Comments: 14
Kudos: 183





	1. Asphyxiation

Danny flicked his knife between his fingers and palm, shifting the weight as he hummed, the forest path seemed desolate but it was at these dead ends he’d find something new. A whisper seemed to envelop him, letting him know his hunch was right, another rift in the fog, he followed the sound, a high pitched droning at the edge of his brain. Danny was proud of how he had learned a back door method to enter multiple realms, a way to slip between the waves of fog and enter new places. He was not tied down to a single realm like the others and it allowed him special privileges, most of which he used to learn about other killers.

He reached a hand to the shimmer, his glove submerging and vanishing into the thick fog, with a deep breath he pushed through the void. It wasn’t fun by any standard, it was painful, an invisible impact to the soul, like having your skin peeled back slow from the muscle as you pushed through, nails dragging into the bare flesh. It was a sign he wasn’t meant to be doing this but he didn’t care, biding time between trials was much more painful and he liked the idea of what he’d find on the other side. A more vivid version of the realms, not seen outside of the trials where it was nothing more than the entities rearranging form of a plucked memory, hollow and fake. Instead, this way showed how the realm looked within that killer's mind, a deep introspective view.

His chest ached as he stepped out of the fog, every nerve alight with pain. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, instantly recognising which realm he’d entered. Lamppost lights flickered and stretched down the asphalt, the empty and abandoned houses watched solemnly through dust stained windows. The stench of rot nauseating as he stepped around a black puddle of pumpkin and mould, each step sinking as if the porch would give way. Somehow it looked worse than the trials, everything was dead, rotting, except one building. It looked preserved in time, alive with carved pumpkins resting on the doorstep, candles flickering within, he had no doubt in mind which house it was. Danny looked around the wilting trees and hedges as he took tentative steps, trying to stay off the streets and to the shadows.

Dead autumn leaves crunched softly under his feet as he crept closer to the house, a sale sign posted outside, a faded memory of the past, the text seemed to shift, as if the killer struggled to remember the details of the sign. They all did, the entity only gave back memories when they were of benefit, or as gifts, and they rarely had enough substance to piece together the past. Danny felt eyes on his back, turning to find no one there, the shape knew he was here. No other killers had managed to enter his realm and lucky they hadn’t, Michael doesn’t appreciate intruders.

Danny knew he should leave, he could always come back when Michael was in a trial, he noticed the presence behind him a fraction too late to avoid the outstretched hand that locked on his shoulder. He was violently spun, a second hand catching his throat, his feet lifting off the ground. He could feel the strength in the grip at his neck, choking the air from him, his hands raised in an attempt to pry himself free only to be suddenly thrown to the ground, a warm trickle of crimson leaking down from his forehead.

In seconds the shape was on him, his thighs pinning the ghosts body to the ground. Danny laid there, sharp gravel digging into his back, a powerful grip crushing his throat, his lungs were burning, begging for air. A silver flicker of pale moonlight illuminated the rage smouldering in Michael’s eyes as his hands tightened, shifting his weight further onto the shrouds chest. Danny could feel his rib cage creaking, threatening to break under the immense pressure.

The stories hadn’t exaggerated the raw power and brutal instinct, he brought this on himself, weeks of baiting, taunting; intruding in his realm was the final insult. Danny had always tried to get a reaction, now he had it, he had the monster’s full and absolute attention, and it was literally choking the life out of him. His vision began to blacken at the edges as he reached desperately for the knife sheathed on his thigh, reversing the blade and driving it deep into the shape's thigh.

Danny took advantage of the moment, shifting the weight and rolling the shape to the ground. The first breath of icy midnight air like razors to his throat, but the relief was immense as he gasped for air. His chest heaving. An uncomfortable feeling hindering him slightly as he watched the shape lift his knife, slowly rising from the ground. Almost inhuman, spider-like, how smoothly and effortlessly he uprighted himself, pulling the knife from his leg in one fluid movement, bathed in crimson and expressionless rage.

The shrouds panting breaths were the only sound over the overwhelming silence, each one escaping as a mist through a strained smile. Danny felt the anticipation tighten in his chest as he pulled out another knife, he’d have to fight just to get out alive, a flicker of excitement dancing in his eyes as a grin crept across his face, this was going to be fun. The shape’s knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the kitchen knife, attacking with a renewed fury, his blade arcing through the air in an upward swing, just barely missing Danny’s throat as he dodged, collecting his second blade from the floor in the movement and slipping it into a sheath.

Danny returned a strike, his blade carving a crimson path across the shapes arm. Danny knew the main thing to avoid was the grasp, the entity made all killers stronger and more resilient, but he suspected in a close combat fight he’d still lose. Instead he kept his distance as much as possible, getting in deeper and deeper cuts when he could, looking for opportunities to strike.

The shape lunged again, Danny stepped into the lunge instead, rapidly using his first blade to pin the shapes knife baring hand to a tree by the wrist, pulling his second from his thigh and pushing it into the shape’s ribcage, his grin widening as he pushed the blade in deeper, feeling the shapes body tense in pain. Danny pulled the blade out, blood rapidly soaking the blue overalls a murky black. He loved every second of it, he could feel the shape struggling to keep up his inhuman exterior with each hit, be it rage or pain, he was drawing it all out.

Danny jolted as the shape pulled the blade from his wrist effortlessly, throwing it far. Danny swiftly side stepped a thrust, the second horizontal swing catching the side of his stomach as he grabbed the shape's arm. His strength no match to keep the beast restrained as he was grappled and thrown into a nearby tree, the rot causing it to collapse as he hit it, the air violently knocked from him and the impact nearly knocking him out then and there.

A dull ringing echoed in his ears, his vision blurring, only raising his head in time to feel the crushing grip at his throat, a single hand raising him up the demolished tree trunk while the other held the knife, ready to bury it into his gut and hang him from the tree like a decoration. Using the last of his strength, Danny reached for his last hidden spare blade against his thigh and buried it deep in the shape's shoulder, the insult enough to free him momentarily.

His exhaustion made sure he didn’t get much further than crawling slightly away before his throat was constricted. A faint choking noise was the only thing to escape as he was viciously pulled back by his own hood and dragged through the fog back to the forest where he’d entered only to be thrown callously to the ground like discarded trash. Danny couldn’t even bring himself to get up, his eyes were heavy, almost waiting for death as the shape knelt over him, one hand knotted in his shroud, the other grasped firmly on his knife.

Moments of silence passed for what felt like an eternity, leaves rustled, the trees swaying to the solemn howls of the wind. Danny could only hear the pounding of his heart in his ears, he was still pinned, beaten, bloody, on the line between death and passing out, the next move was entirely out of his hands. He knew he should hate it but curiosity was stirring in his mind. If he was going to die, he was going to find a few things out first. He didn’t even believe death was truly permanent here, survivors never stayed dead but a killer had never died to find out.

Michael’s fingers released the shrouds veil, trailing too close to his thigh, a sudden tearing noise and a cool air washing over his skin ripping Danny from his half comatose, almost fainting state. Michael had effortlessly torn his pants open, revealing the shrouds growing lust, a sharp breath tearing into his throat as a calloused hand rested lightly on him, the other still firmly gripped on his knife. Danny decided to take a risk, it might be the only thing to save him at this point, or get him killed even faster, he wasn’t sure, but was out of better options, his hands quickly lifting the shapes mask. Michael pulled back fast, dropping his blade in the motion to pull his mask back on.

Danny reached for the blade, cutting an upward arc across Michael’s chest, tearing open his overalls and shirt revealing toned pale abs, a light trail of blood now leaking down across them. Danny thought it only made the whole image better. A playful smile crossed Danny’s crimson stained lips, blood now dried at their edges. The shape reacted immediately, pinning his hand to the ground, leaning down over him, close enough Danny could feel the heat radiating off his chest, a wild glare barely visible under the mask.

“Now we’re even, right?” Danny managed to choke out, referring to his torn clothes his own voice coming out quieter, more gravelly and broken than he expected,

 _That’s what strangling will do to you_ he mused inwardly.

Michael wasn’t as amused as he was, the hand tightened, almost crushing his wrist, forcing him to drop the knife. He felt the shape press in close against his neck, holding him in place as he inhaled his scent, he felt the heated breath through his shroud, involuntary shuddering as he struggled to get free. He was suddenly forced onto his stomach, the impact making him feel sick, his bones rattling, his body on the verge of giving out already.

Danny struggled against the oppression, his attempts met with fingers locking in a fist in his hair, forcing his face back down against the floor, pinning him in place. Danny’s body froze when he felt the reason why he had been upturned, a noticeable bulge pressing hard against his ass, he wasn’t the only one who had been excited by the fight. He didn’t even know if he could handle this right now, fingers forced into his mouth, drool leaking down his battered lips, he wasn’t going to be taken that easily, he bit down, hard, the metal tainting his tongue as the shape continued, indifferent, driven by instinct and lust.

His cries were muffled as he was forced into, not a single moment of hesitation, consideration or care from the shape, his expression overwhelmingly dark and tense, animalistic and dominant. A few violent shoves rocked his body to its core, the pain sharp as a cold sweat spread across his skin, a dread like spiders crawling down his spine as the thrusts slowly became more smooth.

He was a mess within minutes, his body shaking from exertion, pain and pleasure, drenched in sweat, mixed into a sickening null. His aching body wanted it to stop, and another part of him wanted it even harder and harder won out, he taunted the shape into a harder, faster more violent thrusts, a hand locked to his hip, his whole body rocking from the impacts, he moaned eagerly with every shove, the fingers barely muffling his groans and cries.

An immense wave of pleasure washed over him as the tension raised during the fight was released, spilling onto the dirt beneath him as the final thrusts finished. He felt the shape lean against him once more, he lay still feeling the weight of each breath, Michael’s face buried in his shroud at the nape of his neck, remembering the scent. He exhaled slow as he withdrew, almost unfazed, his rapid breathing and slight veil of sweat the only sign he had done anything at all. Danny could feel the warm release dripping slow down his thighs, the world still a blurred haze as the shape disappeared into the thick fog, his footsteps fading into the night and silence returned once more.

Danny laid there, unable to move, a bloody, broken mess, completely ravaged to the point of collapse, his body a mix of afterglow and aching pain, a fog slowly suffocating his mind. His gaze was blank, empty and searching the sky as his vision darkened, he could feel his consciousness drifting, side to side, a boat rocking at sea. He couldn’t believe he was going to pass out, bleeding, dick out, in the middle of some forest after being thrown around and absolutely devoured, treated like nothing more than a piece of meat and yet, he had loved every second.

His mind turned over thoughts of how he planned to get his revenge, sooner or later he’d have the shape at his mercy instead. Still, he had learned something about Michael, he had seen so much more than the emotionless void he’d been warned about. His weeks of watching culminating in this first moment, he’d learned there were, in truth, many sides to the shape, and he intended to take every part out, piece by piece until he had seen it all. A self satisfied smile washed from his expression as he slowly drifted off into the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been meaning to upload these for a while, but finally decided why not, hopefully I’ll get better with practice, I’m pretty new to writing like this. I just saw we don’t have as much out there for this ship and decided to try writing. Please feel free to make any suggestions/requests, I will try my best, I will finish all drafted chapters first. 
> 
> As this collection will have various themes and requests some extra warnings will be included at the start of some chapters, I want this to be an open collection welcoming all views on this ship and potential interactions. Not even going to pretend there won’t be some darker content. Thank you for your consideration in reading this, and I hope you enjoy this collection.


	2. Obsession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Survivor AU Michael.  
> What starts as a small rivalry becomes a deadly obsession.

The crackling campfire spilled a warm orange hue over the empty eyed figures huddled around it, it seemed to burn forever. Time had no meaning here, they simply waited endlessly for their turn in the trials. A bloody nerve wracking game of hunter and hunted to appease an ethereal being feeding on their hope and emotions, the entity.

Michael still chose to keep time regardless, sixty days, more or less, since he’d been bleeding out. The victim of a stabbing by a blonde haired woman with dark hollowed eyes and a blank emotionless face. He still remembered that much but everything before it was lost to the suffocating fog in his head. He could still feel the sting of the wound, his hand running over his chest occasionally, fingers searching, yet not finding even a scar.

He’d felt every moment of the life draining from him, the crimson staining his jacket and shirt, the wet sticky warmth, the shock spreading like ice through his veins as the figure hovered over him. The light headedness. The sickness. The world bleeding out with him, its colours fading, draining from the surroundings as his breaths slowed, his eyelids like lead.

A buzzing like insects had erupted in his ears, gnawing at his brain, an arcane yet impossibly loud voice. It didn’t speak with words, instead it was a feeling, the message injected directly into his brain. Dread, yearning, hunger. A chill crept along his skin, prickling it hot and cold, pins and needles, as the whispers in his head grew stronger, a thick fog drowning his conscience. The world seemed to return to focus as his eyes flicked open.

Michael’s breaths stained the air a ghostly transparent white as he rapidly sat up. A deep unforgiving forest stretched before him, trees waving their rotting tendrils, inviting him into the depths. He slowly started walking the solemn path carved into it, the whispers creeping alongside him, like a monster on the edge of perception, hunting him through the trees.

Michael could feel the eyes on him, they were everywhere and nowhere all at once, his pace increased as he noticed a faint glow in the distance, bursting through the brush, his hands torn by thorns and bristles. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the warm orange glow of the campfire as they met those of other souls trapped in this unfamiliar place.

By now he’d grown used to the trials, the first time he’d never forgotten, he’d died fast. Michael never screamed, he was always silent, but he’d felt the air catch like razors in his throat as the rusty hook plunged through his shoulder the first time. The dark tendrils closing in on him, piercing his soul. It was an indescribable feeling as life was sucked out of your very being, your lungs drained, your emotions bled out of you then you woke up at the campfire, indifferent, as if nothing had happened. The only reminder was a dull ache depending on the manner of past “life and death” you had experienced.

Michael felt the anticipation of the next trial as he sat by the campfire warming his frozen hands with his breath. He'd collected some haphazard tools given to him by some of the other survivors, he’d taken quite naturally to repairs but taking the killer's attention and buying time was his weakness. It always felt like he’d hit a dead end.

Instead he’d grown used to some of the tricks to avoid being seen. Crouching, avoiding traps, listening to the chills on his skin and the prickling of the hairs on his neck, the heartbeat pounding in his ears. Often he’d slip into the shadows and avoid the killer all together if he could and suddenly disappearing without a trace was his best skill. Michael had honed a natural ability to divert his tracks, to not be seen nor heard, he didn’t even cry out when injured, all of these helped him often to be the last one standing.

He wasn’t usually a team player either, preferring to be solitary, self sufficient and objective focused. That’s what had helped him escape the occasional trials, he only risked unhooking and healing others when absolutely necessary. Most times he’d slip out of trials where others were still in danger, he didn’t owe them anything, not his life most of all. Michael saw the team only as a way of escape, if they all died early his chance of dying increased too, so he still played along, not out of concern but out of efficiency.

It was then the fog took him, his vision obscured by the immense darkness, the scent and warmth of the fire fading, replaced with a freezing chill. A deep fog rolled against him, penetrating both flesh and bone. A howling wind whipped through the cornfields as Michael instantly went for the nearest generator, his mind alert, his ears listening for the faintest sounds, a crows call, footsteps, cries of his teammates.

The generator hissed and spat sparks as he touched the cold steel, a curse the killers sometimes used, tied to a lit altar of bones. Michael didn’t mind, he’d trained himself to adjust the coils and cables, he worked diligently. It was then a chilling scream echoed across the field, his teammate going down instantly, he’d never seen this happen before, not without the sound of a chainsaw roaring in the distance.

It had been unnervingly silent, moments later another scream resounded as they were thrown callously onto a hook. A flash of light poured over him as he finished connecting the last wires in the generator, the machine roaring to life. He could almost feel the killer focus on him, chills creeping across his skin, the gaze felt so unfamiliar, new.

Michael decided to wait nearby, to see if he could at least find out who the killer was, instead his teammate was unhooked as another was struck down. They were going down in seconds, without warning, they were trading hooks fast and he had finished the only generator of the trial.

By the time he’d finished his second generator one teammate had already been hooked for the last time, her final cries fading as the despair rippled across the field and the trial tipped in the killers favour. It was too early, he needed to work faster to keep up. Michael tore through another generator and a wave of relief washed over him as another was finished on the other side of the fields.

One remained and three survivors. Things were turning in their favour but he knew better than to underestimate how killers can become more savage and desperate under pressure. They always had the wrath of the entity to fear if their bloodlust wasn't enough motivation.

Michael noticed how many defences had been destroyed carelessly, his team still falling to the blade, this time the gruff old man, Bill. He had only recently tried learning their names, he didn’t care enough to remember most but this one seemed to stick. For some reason Bill always checked in on him at the campfire, he never seemed to mind Michael’s silence and cold shoulder either, instead sitting with him in solidarity for a while, watching the flames dance and crackle. Michael slipped back against a wall as he saw a teammate get stabbed a few meters in front of him, a veiled shadow chasing her through the cornfields and leaving him to go for the rescue.

Quickly, he went for the hook, pulling the older man off and bandaging his wound as fast as he could, cooling blood sticking from palms to fingertips. Bill ran off, the other teammate wasn’t down, his mind was alight with warning, the killer was returning or else she’d be down right now.

Michael slipped behind a wall as faint footsteps resounded from the other side, he realised it wasn’t any of the survivors. He could almost identify everyone he’d met or faced by the sound alone, this was new. Michael followed the sound, moving around the wall to not be seen, each step avoiding the grass to make no sound, this killer had no presence, no warning of their approach, a ghost.

After barely avoiding the killer he caught a small glimpse of them as they disappeared into the corn, a trail of torn ribbons following behind, drenched in black and blood, a silver knife glinting in hand. Moments later a scream as a teammate went down instantly, it now made sense how his team was falling so fast, they had no warnings.

A new killer that always seemed to be able to find them, even the softest noise appeared to draw them, Michael considered himself lucky they hadn't heard his breaths earlier. Another cry echoed across the corn as the second survivor was sacrificed, leaving only Bill, himself and a full generator to do.

A flash of green caught Michael’s eye as Bill gestured to him to follow, the older man showed him a generator in the distance, half completed, yet unsafe, open on all sides to attack and nothing around to defend themselves. He hesitantly followed, they had to try, he had half started a generator repair near the hook so it would at least work as a distraction.

As the third piston roared to life a vague hope returned, if they could finish this, there was at least a chance one, if not both of them, could escape. It was then a sound alerted him, looking over his shoulder he noticed a ghostly white mask staring back at him, black tendrils spilling out from its sides.

Michael attempted to warn Bill and ran, an intangible impact tightening his chest as he fled, Bill took a hit for him and ran in the opposite direction. Michael knew if he was hit now his next few moments would be spent hanging from a hook.

Bill retreated to the generator, still sparking from the damage the shroud had done, Michael knew he just had to last long enough in the chase for Bill to finish. He could feel the killer closing in, the blade and it’s owner thirsting for his blood as he passed endless chunks of splintered wood before quickly vaulting a window, his leg catching on the edge, sure to leave the memory of a bruise.

He circled back, the killer gone from sight, he couldn’t hear him, the heartbeat pounding in his ears and the crackling fire from a nearby barrel drowning out the footsteps. Michael began to second guess himself, his eyes searching every crack in the walls, trying to anticipate the shrouds pathing. He refused to play a game of unknowns, quickly bolting out towards the next area of safety, a pallet in sight.

Michael barely reached it in time, throwing the barricade down instantly to hear the thunk of knife on wood, the ghost's mask mocking as he tilted his head, the time for him to strike running out. Instead he chose to leave, returning to protect the last generator. Michael caught his breath as he saw it light up in the distance, his heart sinking as he heard Bill cry out. As he started opening the gate Bill hit the dirt in the distance, an audible cry escaping as the old man was thrown onto a hook.

The exit was open, Michael contemplated leaving, he didn’t need to play the hero and get himself killed but Bill had taken a hit for him earlier, he could have been the one dying. Bill gave him the chance to get to safety. A resigned sigh escaped as he returned to the cornfield, he carefully hid nearby watching the shroud investigate the opened gate then return towards his bait.

Michael approached silently and cautiously, watching the shroud creep back into the corn and counting mentally before he ran to Bill, pulling him off and they both started a full sprint towards the gate. A glint of silver caught his eye to Bill’s left, Michael had risked this much he wasn’t going to let his effort be wasted.

He shoved Bill aside, taking the knife to his shoulder, the pain searing as they both closed in on the gate. Blood seeped between his fingers as they passed the gate, the old man just steps ahead of him, the shroud even fewer steps behind him. Michael could hear the knife slice through the air, his breath held as he just barely made it out, the entities spikes piercing the air behind him and blocking the attack, locking the killer in.

Michael turned as Bill continued on towards the fire, his shoulder still bleeding, angry with white hot pain. The ghostly figure simply tilted his head, observing him, waving calmly as if sure they’d meet again, and that things wouldn’t end the same then. Despite the gesture Michael could feel the waves of animosity as he turned and walked to catch up to his teammate, the ghostly mask seared into his mind as the fog drew him back to the fire, his wounded shoulder just a memory now.

——  
A week had passed before he met the ghost again, this time on the Macmillan estate, his team more well equipped this time, the new uncertainty with how to face him wearing off as they learned more with each trial. Michael usually excelled in staying alert, noticing every little detail but the shroud had adapted to them just as much. He learned from each confrontation too and changed his approach, not as stubborn in his methods as some of the other killers.

A recently disturbed crow cawed loudly as it took off into the midnight sky just to Michael’s left, preemptively running to the right in response he was cut off, silver rending the flesh of his back as the shroud appeared behind him. Blood leaked down his back, trailing between his shoulder blades as he ran for a safer area, the shroud had disappeared. Uncertain if the chase had ended Michael quietly climbed into a locker, holding his breath to not make a sound.

The whipping of ribbons in the chilled air resounded behind him, the shroud hadn’t lost him. the figure stopped in front of his locker, noticing the drops of blood dripping down the grass outside and throwing open the doors, throwing out his hands in a mocking ‘gotcha’ manner.

Michael refused to be trapped, throwing a kick to the killer's thigh, throwing off his balance and forcing him to step back. Michael reacted fast, grappling him and slamming him against the wooden wall beside the locker, the shroud caught off guard in momentary shock someone had actually fought back, his knife thrown from his hand from the force.

Michael could feel the slight vibration of laughter from the shroud as he began pushing back slightly, Michael’s grip tightening and slamming him back against the wall. A mild panic crossed his thoughts as the shroud pushed effortlessly away from the wall with a single hand, Michael’s arms trembling against the strength.

It made sense, if they could overwhelm killers so easily the entity would starve, still, he had one last attempt in mind. He quickly grabbed the blade from the ground as he stepped away, the ghost regarding him silently as he stepped forward, Michael refusing to mirror and retreat the distance.

Michael waited in anticipation and took the next step as the tipping point, lunging viciously at the shroud and burying the blade in his ribcage without hesitation, their faces close enough now he could see a slight glint of the shrouds eyes beneath the dark hollows as he pushed the blade in deeper, twisting it, the shrouds body slowly starting to go limp.

As he went to withdraw the blade a crushing grip tightened on his wrist, breaking the bones, his teeth gritting in pain, a sharp breath caught in his chest as another hand grabbed his throat and slammed him hard against the wall, the wood cracking beneath him.

His eyes flared with shock as the shroud indifferently pulled the blade from his side, a warm orange burn crossing the wound as it sealed, and pinned Michael’s unbroken hand to the wall. A gasp unable to escape his crushed throat, the pressure increasing making him dizzy as blood struggled to reach his brain.

Michael felt himself retreat reflexively against the unyielding wall as the shroud leaned in against his neck, breath a warm contrast to the fog, the intimacy instilling a creeping discomfort like spiders under the skin, his voice barely a whisper.

“See...that’s the fun thing about this place, you can’t kill me, but I can certainly kill you. Many ways too, and believe me, you’re going to find out every. single. one of them.” The shroud hissed before pulling out the knife and throwing Michael on his shoulder effortlessly.

Michael soon found his struggles were pointless as he was thrown onto a hook, the shroud taking a moment to silently watch him, enjoying the sight, noting how he didn’t cry out, before disappearing around a corner to hunt another survivor.

Michael gritted his teeth, his fingers tracing the hook in his shoulder, holding it tight enough to cut his hands, the blood and pain to distract him from the anger. Another thought reminded him it was only the start of the trial, not a single generator had been repaired and often he shouldered most of that task himself.

His team was spread too thin, a generator howled to life in the distance, quickly followed by another, another teammate went down, the entity drawing closer, materialising around his hook as he watched on, no one had even made a move to save him. He had no choice; he had to struggle.

His attempts were futile as the tendrils became furious, the entity growing impatient, attempting to pierce him, his fingers wrapping tightly around a spidered spear, he wasn’t dying yet. Relief hit as the detective turned the corner and helped him off bandaging his wounds too and taking a hit for him as the shroud appeared suddenly disrupting them. He knew Michael had only one chance left, sadistically deciding to keep the pressure on as he chased him, sinking the blade into his back once more before leaving to pursue the detective.

Michael knew he had no way to heal, instead he took the pain in his shoulder as motivation, he wanted to escape this bastard again. He headed straight for the nearest generator while two teammates went down to prevent one from being hooked, failing in the end, resulting in all three needing rescue and Michael being injured.

Michael waited, breath held tight in his chest, the ghost could decide to end it all here by finding him but a sigh of relief escaped his lips as a downed teammate was picked up and hooked, of course he’d want to drag it out, the ghost seemed to thrive on this, he enjoyed every minute of the trials, especially when he had the survivors afraid, weak and broken.

The detective was running out of time but Michael knew the killer would likely anticipate his save first, instead he unhooked one of the others, then the detective who followed up by unhooking another before going down instantly and being hooked, his sacrifice confirming this trial was likely over as another went down shortly after.

Michael returned to his generator, the light pouring over him as it lit up, only two remaining and everyone was still injured. Only a few minutes later Michael was alone. His hands falling from the generator he was working on as he crept towards the main house, his senses fuelled by adrenaline, anger and pain. Alone, trapped with a killer who especially wanted him dead, and gave little to no indication of their presence, to make things worse he was still bleeding out, the rust trail betraying him as drops quietly hit the rotting floor.

The gates roared to life as he watched from the upper floor window, letting him know the hatch was no longer an option, he waited to drop down and make a final attempt at the gate, they were luckily spaced a decent distance apart. Michael tracked the shroud to the gate nearest to him before jumping down and running to the gate. Everything seemed to slow, his bloody hands marking the handle as the lights started coming to life, his face bathed in a vermillion glow and his heart pounding as he turned to see the shroud approaching rapidly.

As the gates flew open he ran, the air knocked from him as he was stabbed viciously, hitting the ground mere inches from escape. Slowly his blood stained the dirt as he crawled desperately towards the exit, blood dripping from his lips, his crimson laced fingers reaching for it but it falling just barely out of his reach. The shroud pressed his heel against Michael’s back stopping him in place, twisting it, dirt digging painfully into his wound.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Not this time.” The voice all smoke and venom as Michael was ravenously picked up and carried away, his struggles intense, he was so close. He hated this, he knew what was coming, a sickening wave of defeat coiling in his stomach as his skin burned.

“I’ve got a special surprise for you...” The shroud mused, ignoring his struggles, his tone dripping with amusement. Michael hit the ground with an impact that made his body ache with renewed fury, the pain exacerbated as the shroud dropped onto his lower back, heat pressed against his back as the shroud leaned over him.

“Looks like you weren’t so lucky this time, last time you barely made it out” the voice a gravelly whisper against his ear.

“You’re a hard one to track, you don’t cry out like the others, I’ve never seen someone try to fight back before, guess it didn’t work out so well for you, huh?” He could almost feel the grin against his ear as cold leather stroked his face.

“I had to catch the moment, first of many'' Michael felt the laughter against his back as the shroud rose up, lifting his blade in the air and slamming it down between his shoulder blades, viciously pulling it out and stabbing it into his rib cage then returning it to his back. Fingers grasped painfully tight in Michael’s hair pulling his face up from the floor, a camera flash blinding him as the sickening feeling of dying intensified, blood pooling in his lungs.

Michael’s head hit the floor with a resounding thud once the shroud rose to his feet and crouched beside his body.

“Better luck next time, I look forward to it, remember I promised you, it only gets worse from here.”

The laughter echoed in his ears as he watched the figure walk away into the pale moonlight, ribbons like tendrils, his eyes drained of life, his consciousness fading. Michael woke with a jolt at the campfire, his back and side alight with pain, his fingers clutching to it, knotting in his jacket, a bitter thought turning his neutral expression into a slight frown. The ghost was such a cocky bastard, he’d killed by his own hand out of spite of one escape.

Michael took it as an invitation to destroy the ghost in their next confrontation, he wasn’t going to be toyed with. Slowly he did get better, his running ability growing stronger each trial until he learned all the shrouds patterns, all his tricks. Each death, gutting, dismemberment and second of pain only making him stronger for next time. In time he was escaping back to back matches and he could tell it was eating the ghost up inside, the thought amusing him, he managed to slip through the shrouds fingers every single time.

Thick black spears arose behind him as he stood behind the gate once more, this time he allowed himself the taunt of waving as the shroud had done to him their first trial, his lack of expression unwavering. Michael swore he could see the ghost tense up as he drew closer to the entity's spikes, his head down, raising it only as he was face to face.

A cold and hollow feeling radiated off the ghost as he stood there, watching, unnervingly silent, burning his target into his memory. His eyes blank and icy behind the mask, cold, unfeeling other than a spark of enthusiasm. His breathing seething yet excited as he slightly shook his head, his eyes never leaving Michael’s.

Michael could feel the dangerous longing, how he’d wished he could reach through the spikes and drag Michael back into the trial, instead he was planning the next time, his revenge. Michael knew he shouldn’t have taunted, but he couldn't resist sticking his fingers in the shroud’s wounded pride, drawing more blood from his ego. Anything to take him apart piece by piece mentally as he’d done to Michael physically. The darkening demeanour still managed to send chills down Michael’s spine as he turned to leave, he could still feel eyes burning into his back. The hate and rivalry becoming a deadly obsession.

——

The next few days seemed to last forever, he refused to stay by the campfire with the other survivors, instead he found his way through the fog to his hometown, barely recognising it until he walked up the familiar cracked asphalt of his old street. Initially he was relieved but soon realised it was no more real than anything else in this existence. It lacked the feeling, the warmth, a cold opaque fog of rot and decay replacing the late autumn scent of wood fires.

It was by no mistake he instinctively chose the old Myers house to reside. The first few nights he'd had nightmares, vivid moments of the attack, the scent of blood heavy in the air. He'd wake up in a panic, checking his chest for knife wounds, only to forget it all moments later. Now, Michael had grown attached to this place, it was his, no one else knew how to get here outside of trials, he could be alone. The buzz of the campfire and the kind social personalities of the other survivors were too overwhelming to him. He preferred the solitude, it was when he was most at ease.

Recently it rarely felt like that anymore, outside the sky was grey and stormy as his mind decayed, his eyes burning and gritty from the lack of sleep, a curse of insomnia drowning him, draining every last bit of energy. A cloud of paranoia had recently taken up residence at the edges of his conscience. None of it felt particularly unjustified either, he’d noticed the smaller things, it had started with the door and window being opened when he woke up, knowing full well he’d closed both.

Objects around the house seemed to move too, papers shifted, photos moved slightly evident from the dust. A shadow had taken up residence in his house, creeping around just beyond perception. Sometimes he heard crunching footsteps on gravel outside his window, wet footsteps in the rain puddles outside, the creaking of his bedroom door opening in the night, yet when he checked nothing was there.

The final moment was his shirt being rolled up around his neck, almost off, and Michael knew he slept like he was dead, it was unlikely the result of restless sleep, the thought confirmed by the door he’d barred fully open and a cold chill rolling in. From that time onwards he found himself unable to sleep, he swore he heard footsteps in the darkness just beyond his bed some nights, unsure if he’d hallucinated the occasional bright flash from insomnia or was it just the lightning.

It came to the point where he was relieved when the trial wasn’t against the ghost, he knew the next time they met he was in danger, and not the normal trial death kind, the cold blank stare and off key enthused breathing still burned into his mind. Michael’s sighs of relief grew with each killer that wasn’t that particular creepy psychopath, the tightening in his chest easing slightly.

The ghost's entire demeanor towards Michael has changed that trial, no longer mocking, now disturbing, fully focused and vengeful. Michael knew he had pissed off the worst killer you could piss off and it seemed the torment didn’t end within the trials. For every small thing he did notice around the foggy haddonfield houses, he knew a million other warning signs remained hidden around him.

Absently Michael watched his fingers burn through, too tired to care enough anymore, an orange hue transitioning him to a new trial as thick black smoke obscured his vision. Soft snowflakes whipped across his cheek, a light powder falling silently over an isolated ski resort.

His ears filled with the rusty groaning of a destroyed ski lift chair swinging perilously above him hanging on by mere threads of steel. Michael felt his heart drop as mere moments into the match a blood chilling cry crossed the abandoned resort, the teammate viciously cut down and hooked instantly when they had just started, seconds passed before another teammate was already being attacked.

Michael cast a solemn look over his generator and back to the hook, drawing in a painful breath of razor sharp frost he started running over, if they didn’t survive, he didn’t stand a chance.

A generator lit up nearby casting a warm yellow glow through the thickening snowy downpour, he quickly bandaged his teammate. Fresh blood stained his hands, their smile forced, hope still there, it slightly warmed him but the tear in their flesh was abnormally vicious. His senses were buzzing, a dull static beacon of someone long lost in the snow storm. Another cry echoed through the storm. The third by only the first generator.

Michael knew he had to rush, his team was crumbling fast, the entire trial going rapidly downhill, every time he saved they only went down again moments later. They’d reached a stalemate with generators too, unable to get even a single one up without attack.

They were trying desperately, clinging to generators with final dying hope only to be slaughtered mercilessly. An impact tightened his chest, it was like being hit by an invisible shockwave as he crouched at his generator, he could feel the presence closing in, even colder than the snow, overwhelmingly malicious.

Not a second was wasted, he didn’t even cast a glance back, he just ran, the snow whipping painfully across his face and blurring his eyes, he ran to the lodge. The crackling fire held no warmth as he ran up the stairs, crouching behind some debris, hearing the rippling of ribbons. Breath caught in his throat, lungs burning, his heart alight, thrashing, pounding within his ribcage like a bird longing to flee.

Leaning his head back against the dilapidated couch he closed his eyes, listening to the footsteps around him, the howling of the wind outside. The tension in his chest subsided, the exposure over and the shadow had left, or at least he had to assume.

Michael crawled to his feet, his hands marred by splinters from the haphazardly maintained floors, brushing them off he returned to the generators. A second awaking in the distance, the hopeful noise replaced instantly with another scream, another hook, this one fatal. They were already down one, the other two were still injured.

A sickening realisation slowly devoured him from the inside out, they weren’t going to win this trial, there was no hope. The shroud was playing ruthlessly, eliminating people as fast as possible. His attacks were vicious, rapidly working his way through the team and slowly cornering Michael as he tried desperately to finish another generator. It wasn’t fast enough as another life was dragged into the yearning darkness that loomed over the sky.

Burning pain struck his side as his eyes met the ghosts, the sound of footsteps harder to hear over the snowstorm, catching him in the open, he clutched a hand to the wound and ran. He knew he wouldn’t be followed, it wasn’t time yet. He still had more to suffer, the thought hanging tight, constricting around his neck as he started new repairs.

His last teammate was thrown onto a hook, his fingers burning from the cold as he retreated from the generator, she simply gave up, knowing it was over. Michael’s thoughts turned to the hatch. It was his only chance, he hadn’t been hooked, it was deliberate. His eyes washed solemnly over the blood leaking down his side, small drops of it staining the snow a deep rust red. The sickness had risen in him, his hands trembling slightly from the cold, marred with blood and dirt.

Slowly he crept toward the lodge once more, his back pressed against the timber wall, waiting a few moments, hoping his blood trail wasn’t noticed. Michael knew he had no chance at the hatch by now, the shroud was likely waiting near it, he’d seen a chase pass by it earlier, there was no way he didn’t notice it.

Warm breaths bled out into the atmosphere, seconds feeling like an eternity, the shroud wasn’t closing the hatch. Michael didn’t have a chance at the gate until it was closed, he couldn’t run at it either, he’d be cut down in seconds. His ears were ringing from the focus, he swore he could hear the occasional rippling of ribbons downstairs.

His heart was pounding as the bile rose to the back of his throat, the cold eating into him, through skin and bone and soul. Michael knew he had to make an attempt, he’d be playing into the ghosts trap but he didn’t have any other choice, he slowly crept towards the nearest doorway, the howling storm hitting him hard as the snow crunched lightly under his feet.

His entire body jolted as he heard the unmistakable sound of ribbons whipping in the wind, a sharp gasp caught in his throat as the well known pain of silver carving into flesh hit him. His shoulder exploded into white hot pain, an intense contrast against the frozen tundra around him. Michael remembered hitting the floor, the impact shaking him to his core, brittle and icy, as if he’d shatter, hearing the light crunching of snow as the shadow loomed over him.

He closed his eyes momentarily as a pair of boots stopped in front of him. He only hoped the death would be fast but he knew it wouldn’t be, you knew it was a fate worse than death when you actively wanted to die as the alternative. Michael wished the hypothermia was real at that point, he could see the hatch not too far but he knew his chance was gone.

A vice like grip knotted in his clothes, heaving him onto the shadows shoulder and carrying him inside the lodge, a complete lack of concern as he was thrown against the unforgiving floor, knocking the air out of him entirely.

“Looks like your winning streak is over” the ghost mused, a self satisfied tone dripping from his tongue as his blade lightly traced the pale flesh of Michael’s neck, just enough to make a slight cut, the visage of blood against snow, his knife ice cold, adding to the sting.

“So many close calls with you lately, always seems like you’re just out of reach...I’ve been waiting for this moment, I’m going to enjoy every second of this.”

Michael was dragged to his knees, his jacket discarded, his form visible under the tight fitting black undershirt. The shroud holding his jaw up to meet his eyes yet keeping his face level with his crotch, a gloved thumb gliding over the scar on his cheek, noting it. Biting his blade between his teeth as a single hand undid the belts and zips, freeing his obvious arousal, his frustrations clearly building to this moment. A single gloved finger slipped into Michael’s mouth, the faint metallic hint of blood staining his tongue, the shroud pulling his mouth open, he attempted to resist, the slight struggle only tightening the grip on his jaw.

“Trust me, you’re going to wanna do this, or of course, I could use something else” the ghost vitriolic as he shoved his fingers into an open wound on Michael’s side, rubbing the blood between his fingers. Michael got the hint, he knew the faster he just got this over with the sooner he could leave, be it death or otherwise, he knew resisting would only result in force and he didn’t have the strength to fight back, the insomnia and exhaustion from the trial building an aching tiredness in his chest.

He almost gagged as the shrouds throbbing member was thrust into his mouth, the grip on his jaw refocusing his eyes on the white mask looking down at him.

“The better you do now, the less the next part is going to hurt, as if that’s not better but I’ll leave that up to you.” A low derisive tone rolling off the shroud's tongue as he ran his blade gingerly against Michael’s face and down his neck. Michael took the warning, knowing resistance would draw this out and lead to more pain, if not just give him more sick satisfaction. If that was even possible.

He started running his tongue over the length, moving his mouth around it, he knew the goal was just to get him wet as possible. After a minute the shroud withdrew, pushing him viciously back against the wooden floor, unbuckling his belt and tearing away Michael’s jeans, removing them completely, the cold chill of the wind burning his legs.

The ghost worked fast, lifting off his mask before holding up Michael's legs and pushing deep into him in the one fluid movement, his expression a snarling grin, deep whiskey brown eyes alight with flickers of satisfaction as tendrils of black hair spilled over his forehead.

“I wanna see your face as I fuck you into the ground.” he snarled in the brunets ear, a cruel, unwavering smile spreading across his lips as he spoke, his breath sending goosebumps in waves over Michael’s pale cold flesh. He didn’t take it slow in the slightest, his hands wrapped tight to Michael’s throat, his rhythm savage and lusting, each impact rocking Michael’s aching body.

An unpleasant heat spread across his skin, a burning fire within contrasting the bitter cold nipping at his legs and feet. His mind clouding from the lack of oxygen, his eyes dimming slightly as he watched the shrouds psychotic grin deepen with each moment of increasing pace. Just as he felt his vision blacken the hands released his throat, his vision slowly returning in spots with each breath.

Michael’s breathing had become ragged panting, his mind still murky and his throat bruised. He felt the shroud marking him, biting hard enough to break the skin, licking, sucking, making his way across the snowy flesh, pulling back only as he increased his intensity, violently thrusting deeper and deeper. A grin of ecstasy spreading across his face as his own breathing became strained.

The shroud’s grip tightened on Michael’s injured shoulder causing Michael to tilt his head back, a slight grimace tainting his expression as he resisted the urge to cry out. The intensity of the sensations, a disgusting swirling tempest raging inside him simply released as distressed breaths. Nails raked deep across the wooden floor, his teeth gritted tight as his body was violently rocked, apathetic gloved hands guiding his hips with careful precision.

The building sensation was overwhelming; he hated how it felt, a sickening mix of pleasure and pain, he resented any pleasure derived from this, hating his body for giving into the feeling, the ghost was good at hitting his mark, each thrust hitting him in just the right spot.

Michael drew his hand over his mouth, his teeth sinking into the flesh, drawing blood to keep the sounds in, denying any satisfaction as his eyes locked with a deep ferocity on the ghost. It ended with an intense wave of guilty pleasure as he released, the taste of blood on his tongue, the ghost finishing inside him, slowly softening and withdrawing, spilling warmth down Michael’s thigh.

The shroud pulled back, a ravenous grin still carved into his expression, his eyes underlined by permanent dark circles as if he never slept, his panting subsiding as he pulled out his camera, taking another picture. Michael hated that part the most, he knew exactly how he looked, bloody, broken, laced with sweat, marked with bruises and bites, sex dripping slow down his thighs. Exactly as the shroud had wanted him.

“That’s the picture I wanted, you look so perfect.”

He didn’t speak another word as he slowly pulled on his mask and redressed himself, Michael quickly pulled himself together, pulling his jacket on but knowing his pants were unsalvageable. The ghost simply pulled him over his shoulder and walked out into the snow, Michael was waiting for the sharp pain of a hook through his skin, wondering if he’d be granted at least that fast of a death or if this was just the beginning.

His chest hit the snow, the cold burning his legs as he looked up to see the dark smoke leaking out of the hatch. He felt the shroud straddle him, resting lightly on his back, reminiscent, his mask drawn slowly down as he leaned in achingly close to Michael’s ear.

“I’m _letting_ you live, I want you to remember that.” The shroud hissed into his ear, the seething voice spreading goosebumps like wildfire over Michael’s skin, his emphasis on letting, his tone dripping venom. The ghost wanted to salt the wound, wanted Michael to know he’d lost badly, and yet he’d have to crawl out, a breathless, pantless mess with cum drying between his thighs, a bitch escape. The shroud stepped off him, leaving him to crawl, the gravel digging painfully into his chest as he pulled himself towards it.

“I can’t wait for the next trial, you won’t leave breathing next time, I’ll be sure to get another picture.”

The ghost crouched next to the hatch, waving mockingly as Michael dropped into the abyss, the haunting white mask slowly fading into the darkness as he descended. The fog was like plunging into icy water, filling his lungs and mind clouding over, the faint crackle of the campfire waking him. An aching pain spread like poison through his being, a reminder of his encounter and a warning for the next.


	3. Snowfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael finds something unexpected discarded in the snow

The bitter cold bit through his overalls as he trekked through fresh snow, the light crystals falling in a soft haze over the resort. Michael knew the legion kids spent their time here between trials. He also had hunted survivors here, he knew the places they’d try to hide, the vaults, the points he could cut them off. 

He had his own reason for being there now, he never attempted to interact with the legion, but they sure liked trying to get a rise out of him, he never really cared, they were, behind all the joking and brandished taunts, terrified of him. If he even moved a muscle they flinched or ran, he was used to that reaction, people always ran and Michael liked it that way, he liked the pursuit, the hunt, the eventual silence. 

The resort was a good place to just enjoy the simple feeling of snow melting on his fingertips, the numbing cold. The soft powder was enthralling, beautiful as it danced through the ashen sky. After a lifetime sealed within bland concrete, Michael took in everything of the simple things, the orange leaves crunching under his boots in autumn, the fresh flowers and vibrant eruption of colour in spring. 

Often he’d even craft figures in the snow, sometimes with blood and flesh, others with twigs and bone and stone. Michael’s ears buzzed as his attention was drawn to the resort, a cacophony erupting from within, the legion like wasps of a hive, all frenzy and noise. He watched the two male legion heft something in the distance, a body maybe? Michael held a hand to shield his eyes as he squinted, attempting to focus through the frozen downpour. 

The two discarded the body with hefting effort next to the trash cans, the body hitting the frigid metal with a metallic crash. Their laughter vicious, like a pack of hyenas, spiteful and mocking as they disappeared back into the warm glow of the resort. Michael decided to investigate, he was morbidly interested, shamelessly wandering over like a child poking roadkill. It couldn’t be a survivor, they were kept relatively safe by the campfire, rarely did they ever venture too far from it. His curiosity drew him closer to the mass, realising a few meters away that it writhed with life, thick ropes cutting into its bare naked flesh, burned an angry red fast by the unforgiving cold. 

Michael didn’t recognise the form, slender yet toned, male. Dark black hair. He reached a hesitant hand out to the body, feeling it recoil as he turned them upward to reveal their face. A thick rasp of fabric tied between their teeth, their body constricted and face covered with childish markings of dicks and graffiti-esque tags. 

He had to admit it did look ridiculous, they had succeeded in taking not only his clothes but his dignity too. The figure twitched beneath him, clearly uncomfortable between the tight restriction and the snow burning his back. Michael soon realised exactly who it was, noting they were thrown out like trash. He lifted the small body, easily throwing it over his shoulder while deciding what to do next. 

\----

The familiar scent of haddonfield hit him as he emerged from the fog ridden forest depths, a mix of decay, rot and dirt. Akin to the scent of steamed rain on hot tarmac after a season of drought, the struggles of his guest fading as he reached the old Myers house. Michael figured with relief that he had finally tired out. He less than elegantly threw down the shroud on a spare mattress and grabbed a cloth, dripping some water over it and wiping off the markings on his guests face.

Michael started at the bonds, knowing if he undid them he’d be stuck with this annoyance, he liked the fact the killer was blindfolded and gagged, it saved him the endless talking and irritation. The shroud jolted as Michael’s hand rested on his hip. Goosebumps spread over the pallid flesh, Michael tilting his head curiously as he watched the reaction, he carefully ran another hand over the exposed chest, fingers exploring every inch. He could feel the shrouds breathing catch, struggling momentarily before resting again.

Michael noticed his temperature was rising slightly, uncertain of what to do. He’d seen the act, he knew how people interacted intimately but he’d never cared for it, something about this annoyance, bound and silent made him curious. His other hand still held his knife tightly, prepared for if the other killer broke free, he brought the cold steel to the shrouds skin, pressing just enough to cut across his stomach, a muffled grunt of pain caught behind fabric as a moderate trickle of crimson crept slowly from the wound. 

More comfortable in his own realm Michael slowly lifted his mask, the cool air relieving as it crept over his face, the shroud was blindfolded anyway, the heat was suffocating and he wanted more. Slowly he lowered his lips to the shroud's neck, pressing gentle experimental kisses, running his tongue across the skin, listening to the breathing changes, the soft groans, the shroud no longer resisting the touch, instead passively waiting for it. 

The sounds only made him more interested, wondering what other noises he could draw out. He turned the blade sideways, sliding it over toned pectorals, gliding blunt and cold over erect nipples, a flush of fire in the shrouds expression, shameless arousal. Michael cupped his hand under the wound, the deep rust red draining between his fingers. 

He felt an unfamiliar urge, instinct, a deep primal desire to shove the shrouds face to the floor and mercilessly use him to cure his own desire. With sharp eyes focused on the blood Michael turned the shroud onto his stomach, slender form unmoving beneath him, bloody hands leaving crimson stains over his ass, shoulders and spine. 

Michael continued exploring, touching, waiting, listening, learning. Curiously waiting for each new reaction as he worked his hands over sides and hips, He enjoyed the reactions, the soft gasps and moans, the twitches, feeling the body react to his touch. He slowly trailed soft kisses lower down the shrouds stomach, pressing a final gentle kiss to his inner thigh, a soft gasp escaping his guest as he noted they were already aroused. 

His own lust had grown stronger by the minute, he knew the general idea, He also knew he’d need something to ease the movement. Michael hesitantly unzipped his overalls, caught between lust and reason, resulting in a sickening wave of indecision. 

It wasn't just something that went away, he knew that, he ran his hand over his shaft, slick now with a deep rust red, his hands and body stained with the life beneath him. Michael ran both hands over the shrouds ass, arching down his back and resting on his hips pulling himself in drawing a sharp muffled gasp from the shroud, his white knuckled fingers tightening around the rope, pulling at the bindings again.

The tight warmth was intoxicating, Michael shuddered slightly, caught in the moment, he’d never felt something like this, only observed. Slowly he began a clumsy uncertain rhythm, the shroud faintly attempting to break free of his hold. The shape instinctively knotted a hand in dark black hair, pushing the other killers face callously against the wooden floor, restraining him once more as his thrusts increased instinctually in intensity. 

The shroud arched surprisingly, grinding back, pushing deeper, a low muffled moan escaping with each deeper more vicious thrust. The shape kept an unrelenting pace, the impact shaking the shroud with each movement, the killer's expression a dance of pain and pleasure, body shaking on the verge of collapse, breaths seething between gritted teeth, yet he still endured. 

Michael continued, his fingers knotting in the shrouds hair, holding him down while fucking him mercilessly, all the taunting, all the fighting, everything a poison clouding his mind as he vehemently overwhelmed the shroud. They were nothing more than a means to an end in that moment, a form of lashing out the shroud never would have expected for his efforts. 

Michael enjoyed each muffled cry, the shaking, the bloody stains, the moans, the sharp breaths, the hips rocking back against his own. All the concealed reactions escaping in a rapturous moment of release as he finished. Michael only now saw the shroud as human once more, face down, laced with sweat, his gag wet with saliva, his hair a tangled mess over his brow, reduced to a panting trembling mess, his own release spilt across the floor beneath him.

Michael turned the shroud onto his back, mild shock registering as deep whiskey brown eyes stared back and lit up with recognition. A spark of wild ecstasy and amusement dancing within as his expression beamed, lips creeping slow into a grin, teeth fixed on the binding. His tongue itched for a comment. Michael knew he’d never hear the end of it, the blindfold must have come off in his blind ferocity. 

Michael felt a sickening dread creep through him as he realised how exposed he was, the shroud silently taking in every feature of his face. Michael quickly turned away, pulling on his mask, feeling secure once more but still achingly uncomfortable. Without a gesture or sign of reaction he cut the bindings, the shroud pulling the fabric from his mouth, rubbing his lacerated wrists and watching the shape retreat towards the door. 

“You enjoyed it didn’t you?” Danny called after the figure, his tone dripping with excitement, the words bringing the shape to a frigid stop at the doorway, momentary in consideration before he continued on leaving only a suffocating, all consuming silence. Danny knew the answer from the body language alone, smiling to himself, a quiet ecstatic buzz in his chest as he attempted to stand up, his legs still weak from the ferocity of the intimacy, wiping his hand over the already sealing cut on his stomach.

Danny considered it a lucky turn of events, considering the alternative was being buried in snow until he could have managed to struggle free. His mind was still alight with questions as he took shaky steps, his body buzzing with afterglow and pain, still left wondering why the shape had chosen to pick him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...posting three at once so it might be a little while until the next update while I go through the rest of the drafts. Sorry if my writing isn’t great but I hope you enjoyed anyway, thanks for reading and feel free to leave a comment or request <3


	4. Within

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Survivor AU Michael by request

Soft crackling of fire echoed to his left as the trial began, the trees swayed solemnly in the dull moonlight, the old water tower creaking above, barely upright on rusted legs. Michael was in a particularly irritable mood this trial, he just wanted it to be over already, he was growing tired of being hunted with no way to retaliate. 

Clicks and pangs of metal echoed from within the pistons as he started repairs on a nearby generator, a wild fury arising under the skin as he felt a familiar tightening in his chest, the killer's gaze suffocating. Not again. Not now.

Michael ran to the nearest building, effortlessly slipping over the windowsill and waiting, watching for the killer, senses tuned and alert to the slightest sound. If he could, he considered just accepting the death just to get out, but he knew when being caught by the ghost death never came that easy.

After a few tense moments of silence he suspected the killer lost his trail, the other survivors working hard this trial, two generators firing up as he remained hidden behind a corner, blockaded by some boxes; the tightening in his chest easing with each second. Another teammate cried out as they were struck down, first hook at two completed generators, the killer was struggling more than usual this match. 

Michael didn’t care in the slightest, if anything it brought back hope of ending this as soon as possible, with the added bonus of riling up the ghost. The threat of failure seemed to fire him up already, all three teammates had been injured in the space of a few seconds. Michael finished a generator as a teammate finished another, one left, he crept back to the main building to finish the last. A scream in the distance echoed as another was hooked. He knew if he could finish this fast enough they might all get out in time. 

Maybe not all. 

Michael jolted to catch his balance as he almost slipped, a crimson pool under his boot trailing to a body. He hadn’t even heard the kill, it seemed it was some time ago, the blood already sticky and blackening from cooling. He glanced over the form, carefully stepping around it, feeling even more on edge knowing that his first encounter could be his last. 

Michael hated the noise of the generators, the sound grating and distracting, often drowning out his best sense; especially when the view of the staircase was slightly obscured by tall boxes. He felt the tension ease as the generator was completed but recoil within once more as a survivor was cut down just below him; the cries piercing through the rotting floorboards. Michael crouched by the second storey window, eyes locked on the inky black form as it effortlessly yet viciously threw the writing survivor on a hook. As the killer left to patrol the gates Michael jumped down silently, pulling the teammate from the hook, another already at the nearby gate.

They were nowhere near opening it, the first light only just flicking on, the other gate was in clear view as well. He tossed up the thought of leaving them as a distraction and opening the other gate. He hid just in time as the ghost crept past him, barely an arm length away; the killer close enough that the sickening, sharp scent of cologne was almost suffocating. Michael had no obligation to make sure the others escaped, if anything it was the perfect time to slip out of the trial while the killer was distracted. He had no interest in waiting around long enough to find out which way he'd be killed this time and he had no doubts it would be slow.

Michael’s fingers locked to the cold steel as he heard the first scream, it wasn’t her final hook, he wondered if one kill was all they were permitted in this trial, he knew the ghost would never willingly pass up a picture for his morbid collection. Still, the silhouette of the body remained in mind, he couldn’t take any certainty from it. His attention returned to the gate before him as the third light clicked to life, a dull siren rising from within the gates. He hated that part the most, as if the killer needed another indication they were almost out. 

Michael felt a chill weave down his spine as a presence closed in on him, his skin crawling from the gaze, the gate wouldn’t open in time and he knew it, he needed to abandon it. Maybe the other gate was almost open, both teammates were there, he knew he’d made a mistake in separating from the group, the stabbing pain as metal bit into flesh reinforcing that regret. Of course the ghost wouldn’t just let him disappear, he’d likely noted his absence when guarding the other escape route. 

The ghost followed eagerly, attempting to cut him off and corral him away from the gates, a ripple erupted across the field, the gate was open, the entity growing impatient as it tore down the world around them. One teammate left immediately, he didn’t blame them, he would have done the same if given the chance.

He was stuck, gripping his bleeding side, the ghost remaining on the other side of the barricade of boxes between them, he didn’t need to move, the threat alone keeping Michael trapped. No matter which way he ran the exit was too far away, he knew he wouldn’t make it injured. 

He also knew what happened if he didn’t make it out before the trial burned away. The entity would get him either way at this point. Every move he made the ghost cut off, playfully slashing at him, toying with him. It was always a game to him, Michael hated it. He was forced to stay in place, the grass nearby turning to ashes, the floor alight with fire as it crumbled and ceased to exist. 

Michael watched silently as a short female crept up behind the ghost, her footsteps quiet, avoiding the grass, as her eyes met his wordlessly he knew it was now or never to make a move. He ran, the other survivor taking a hit behind him, they were both over half way across the field before she fell. She’d given him the chance to get out, he wasn’t going to waste that, she was dead as soon as she was hooked, her chances gone, he couldn’t help her now anyway. The killer was already carrying her near lifeless body to a hook.

Michael watched in horror as he was stopped moments from escape, the cries fading, rippling through the fog as sharp black spears arose before him, almost impaling him. Michael stood frozen before the blockade, he was so used to them locking the killer in; not locking him in with the killer. He knew something that trapped killers wouldn’t be broken so easily, it burned white hot, like fire to the touch, causing him to recoil, grasping his hand in pain.

The hook was just outside the gate, there was no chance to get out now, not while injured, he heard the footsteps slowly closing in, a mix of sickness and frustration knotting in his gut. 

“Thought I’d try something new, seems it worked. Freddy does have some fun tricks after all, and I was almost worried you’d slip out just in time.” 

Michael could almost hear the sneer behind the mask as he turned, fingers knotting in his jacket and pulling him closer. 

“Looks like I got lucky. Tough trial. If I was getting anyone, it was definitely you.”

Michael’s thoughts were immediately turned to the offerings he’d seen by the fire noting suspiciously there wasn’t one from the killer. He knew already how wrong that was. The blood still stained the soles of his boots, his thoughts already shifting to how he’d be killed this time, last time was bad enough. 

He remembered it in greyed out moments, losing a few fingers, the ghost watching intently trying to make him cry out, feeling the knife twist in his side and finally when he wouldn’t give in, the blade in his neck. He remembered feeling the blood bubble in his throat, suffocating as he choked on it, his eyes watering as he gagged, his body reflexively struggling to breathe. He grimaced slightly at the memory, just one of the last five.

Danny shifted his weight pushing Michael to the floor, following him down slowly, sitting between hips on purpose and removing his mask, whiskey brown eyes lit with a dangerous ecstatic spark, a vicious creeping grin crossing his lips. “Remember when I said there were many ways to kill you? Don’t think we’ve made it far enough though that list, have we?”

He laughed after, his intentions clear enough, Michael’s hands locked on the ghosts wrist, trying to stop the blade from coming down on him. The ghost tutted, feigning disappointment and slipped out a second blade from his thigh, slamming it down on Michael’s right hand pinning it, the blade twisting between metacarpals and veins as he leaned in tauntingly close to his ear “Can’t have you fighting back, not this time. I want to try something special.”

The ghost leaned back, Michael tensed at the cold silver touching his lips as the ghost tilted his head mockingly, sliding the knife down over his chin and neck, the chill sending goosebumps over his skin.

The next moments passed in a blur, the rapid violence of the movement barely registering. Michael could see the blade piercing deep into his stomach, his body convulsing in agony as he was torn open, a clean slit down his middle, blood already flooding from it. His breath hitched, pupils dilating with shock as he felt a hand slip deep into the wound, digging deeper between muscle, flesh and bone, the pain excruciating as his heart threatened to give out, flooding with ice cold shock, his nerves overloaded. 

He was cut open, yet still alive, unable to move, the killer's hand deep inside him. He could feel the familiar metallic tang of blood tainting his tongue as the killer leaned in against his neck, he could barely feel the wet warmth of a tongue brush his skin, his mind frozen in a momentary panic between life and death. His heart erratic, his own body feeling foreign as his muscles locked, breaths bleeding out of him in rapid succession.

Danny smiled, the expression of shock was intoxicating, as was the sensation of pushing his hand deeper into the wound, feeling the muscles tense in pain. His grin pressed to Michael's neck as his fingers curled, feeling the soft pulsation of a heart momentarily before it stopped, impressed with the feeling.

He’d never felt the pulse flatlining in the moment of death before. He retracted his hand from the gore, noting the beauty of deep crimson glistening in the moonlight. Absently, he wiped his hand clean on his coat before pulling out his camera, managing to take a final image before the fog consumed him, the trial over. 

——

Michael shot up from the ground, clutching his chest, his breathing panicked, tracing fingers over his stomach, shaking, skin laced with beads of sweat, the cold sensation of frigid leather still a phantom feeling under the skin. A wave of sickness hit him as he kept his arms wrapped tight to his middle, trying to chase the cold from his body by staying close to the campfire for a while. He couldn’t fight down the urge to throw up; voiding nothing as he knelt next to a tree, the reflex still in place nonetheless. 

Fog lapped at his ankles as he returned to the Myers house. He sat at the porch, his mind buzzing, senses shuddering. Those few moments lasted an eternity, absently he took a carved pumpkin in hand, his eyes tracing the dancing fire within. Slowly, he placed his fingers in the flickering candle flame, waving them back and forth, his gaze blank, the fire painting his skin with soot. Even the burning pain couldn’t chase away the frigid aching in his chest. It didn’t last like the touch did. 

He felt violated, being so intimately killed, feeling the fingers digging into his wound, gliding over his organs, each touch a fading pain as he bled out, his muscles paralysed with shock as his heart threatened rupture. The way his vision went first, vicious whiskey eyes fading to black, then his hearing, reduced to a dull ringing as his body gave out. A flash of lightning lit up the sky, a dull rumble in the distance, soft drops of water tapping the roof as he watched the sky, his hands still knotted in his jacket wrapped around his chest. A few moments turned to hours, as if they mattered, alone and empty, withdrawn somewhere within his own mind as he sat lifelessly on the porch, watching the rain pool in small puddles.

His gaze ghosted over his arms, noticing the ashes burning away from them, flickering with a soft orange glow. The trial summoning him once again. 

He couldn’t bring himself to care.

The gravel crunched underfoot as his vision returned in patches, the realm renewed, bright, the police car no longer decrepit; now howling with light and colour. The lamp lights no longer sparked and hissed from broken bulbs. It felt like a cruel joke, ripped from his home to be forced to live it out, familiar yet unfamiliar, another rearranged game by the entity. 

Michael glared at the Myers house, the pumpkins staring back with new life, new twisted expressions. He knew a generator often appeared there, so he made it the first place to remove from this game. His eyes glazed over as he started tuning the gears, connecting wires, it became routine, his thoughts elsewhere. No scream nor sound taking his attention from the pistons. Everything felt muted and dull, colour and sound becoming mere white noise. The world itself reduced to a mix of greys and ash.

His heart jumpstarted his lifeless body as a vice grip locked on his arm, tearing him from the generator, the colour slowly seeping back into the grey surroundings, the dark edges gone. “Not paying attention today?” The nonchalant voice grating on his ears as he was thrown over the ghosts shoulder, the sharp pain of a hook bringing the world back into focus. He hadn’t even realised they were down to the last two generators, one already dead. How long had he been kneeling there, dazed? He didn’t even finish the generator, he’d gone blank, withdrawn once again somewhere deep and dark within his own mind.

Dark black tendrils draped down around him, a crunching sound growing ever louder, like insects crawling between his ears and burrowing through his brain as the entity manifested. Michael almost hoped he wouldn’t get saved, depriving the ghost of a second chance to mess with him. A spidered spear lunged at his chest, he stopped it reflexively, there was still a chance to escape, giving up might disappoint the ghost but it would also mean more agonising pain, and accepting defeat.

He huffed slightly, the moment of choice gone as a male with messy black hair turned the corner, the saboteur, the young man placing his toolbox down near the hook and lifting Michael off it, blood now leaking from the open wound. He recognised this one, they also avoided the campfire, often preferring to stick to the outer forest, sometimes he’d even catch a glance of the young man sleeping in trees, curious about how he didn’t fall. Another self-sufficient type but still altruistic in his own way; which more often than not involved his fixation and joy in interfering with the killer's traps and hooks.

Michael followed them back to a partially done generator, exchanging looks as a scream echoed down the basement stairs. The saboteur left quietly to rescue, hopping silently over a window frame, his footsteps soon disappearing. This time Michael stayed alert, listening for the shifting floorboards, holding his breath as dust filtered down from between them above. He slowly slipped into a locker, the killer likely surveying both exits after hearing the generator. 

Michael heard every soft footstep as the killer crept down the stairs, investigating the area, damaging the generator with a vicious kick. Michael held his breath as ribbons cast shadows into the locker through the slits, his body subconsciously tensed, he needed to wait, he wasn’t found yet. He heard them rip open one of the other lockers, slamming it shut with disappointment. 

Michael could tell he was doubting his actions, the other two survivors finishing a generator as he wasted time. He waited for the killer to check another, as he slowly opened the door, backing away, his eyes locked on the killer until he rounded the corner, slipping quietly back up the stairs, crouching behind the lounge sofa as he heard leather creaking on the other side. 

He waited a few moments, leaving through the back door, his heart jolting as the ghost lunged for him, knife barely missing his neck. Michael knew he had to waste as much time as he could. If he could distract the killer long enough his teammates could end the trial. It was his best chance of making it. He could hear the footsteps behind his own as he ran into the nearest yard, throwing down a barricade and vaulting the window into the house, instantly bolting up the stairs. 

The barricade had given him enough space to slow at the top of the staircase, he could hear the ghost rapidly approaching, he held his breath, silent against the doorframe. There were three rooms, he had to hope they searched the wrong room so he could either slip back down the stairs or jump down from the balcony if all else failed. 

He heard the killer creep past, knowing it was his chance to jump down. He hit the ground soundlessly, quickly crouching behind the nearby bushes and watching the shadow pass the window upstairs. Michael knew the ghost would expect him to return to the safety of the generator he’d been on, instead he moved to another in an open field, finding a survivor already working on it. 

Hope returned fast as they managed to finish it but evaporated almost immediately as he felt the tension in his chest, the expression on his teammate perfectly capturing his own inner dread. An almost mental agreement on splitting up took place as they ran in different directions. A shrill cry let him know his teammate met the blade first. Michael breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped down some stairs, choosing to wait out the exposure. Seconds ticked by, his senses on edge as he waited for another scream. He felt mild panic creep in unwelcome as he saw a white mask at the top of the stairs, the tightening in his chest not yet subsided. 

He attempted to run up the other stairs only to be caught at the edge, his body seething with pain as he hit the concrete hard, wet warmth seeping between his shoulder blades. Michael attempted to crawl out onto the street, features twitching with pain as a knife plunged into his calve and dragged him back. The ghost's fingers knotted fervently in his jacket, turning him and pulling him up just enough to be face to face with the figure leaning over him. The grip tightening vehemently as a siren signalled the gates were open, the clothing pulling tight to his throat making it difficult to breathe. 

“That was a cute disappearing trick you pulled back there. Cost me some valuable time. Guess you saved your team, too bad you’re not getting out alive.” The ghost seethed and he could feel it, the heat was radiating off him. Michael gripped tight at his thigh, the ghost noting the touch curiously. 

The ghost's disposition softened a little as his hands ran gently over Michael’s hips. “Not enough time for that.” Michael attempted to fight the urge to pull away as the ghost leaned in against his neck, the pain in his back and leg reminding him he was still bleeding out, the surroundings slipping away a little, drip by drip, second by second as a fog crept over his consciousness. The sound of a zip made him focus slightly, the ghost taking his hand in his own and holding it against himself. Michael could feel the fabric pulled tight against his hand, the ghost keeping it in place between his thighs as he spoke against the survivors neck.

“Make it worth my time and maybe I’ll make it fast and painless, this time.” 

Michael took the member in his hand, feeling it twitch against his palm, slowly he ran his hand along it, his own blood slicking his fingers as he worked. He felt the shrouds breathing lull, almost lost in the sensation, the ground had already started burning away, the world itself growing impatient and hungry. Michael knew his teammates were likely already gone, he could feel the dizziness growing as more of his life trickled onto the concrete beneath him. 

He felt the world sway as he kept pace, his free hand resting against something cold, his fingers lazily wrapping around it, the icy texture helping him keep himself awake against the heavy warmth resting on his chest. He felt the ghosts breathing hitch as he released, a soft moan seeping against his shoulder as he slowly came back to his senses. The killer sat back against Michael's thighs, redressing himself. Michael held his breath, the sickness rising as his mind threatened collapse, he knew it was now or never. 

He pulled himself together for one last attempt, the adrenaline spiking as he gripped the blade tighter, shoving it up and into the ghosts throat, pulling it out fast in a blur of crimson, the panic registering as the killer grasped at the wound, blood spilling between his fingers as he choked on it. Michael remembered how it had felt himself, he almost smiled knowing the ghost had tasted his own torture for once.

Michael arduously got to his feet, the pain in his leg agonising as he started limping towards the gate, seeing it waiting open nearby. He felt like he was going to be sick, his body alight with pain yet his muscles were going weak, the only thing keeping him moving forward was the desperation to escape and the frigid adrenaline running through his veins. 

He didn’t even want to look back, to know if the ghost had started pursuit, he felt like he’d passed some imaginary goal as he walked through the gates, the campfire beckoning ahead, he could almost feel its warmth against his fingertips. He panicked slightly as he heard the footsteps running up behind him, only just barely making it out, the ghosts fingers barely missing him. He turned to face the killer, still staggered from the loss of blood, the adrenaline slowly wearing off, a cold sweat sticking to his brow. 

The ghost pressed his fingers to the blood slicked spot on his throat, orange burns closing the wound as he breathed slowly, exasperated.

“You know I’ll get it back.” He hissed fervently, his glove pressed firm to the spikes, leather hissing as it melted. Michael could feel he was livid, each breath vehement. Michael ignored the killer, looking down at the knife in his hand, his skin pale, bloodless ivory against the slick black of the handle. A final thought of satisfaction washed over him as his body crumbled, the exertion overwhelming as he fell back, his eyelids falling shut like lead as he collapsed, sinking weightlessly into the fog.

His eyes flicked open as he felt the warmth against his arm, the campfire crackling with life as he sat up, his hands still marred with blood, he reached into his jacket feeling the cold steel of the ghost's knife. He’d taken items back from the trials before, odds and ends, little pieces he found interesting but never something like this. He could feel the longing in the blade, it felt wrong, misplaced as it burned against his palm. He slipped it back into his jacket, the ghost always had more weapons, but this one was special, and he’d taken it. He knew it would eat the killer up inside until he could retrieve it. 

Michael’s thoughts remained indecisive, caught between two opposing points, for one he’d driven the nail deeper into his own coffin, the ghost had made it excessively clear he held grudges. On the other hand, he’d taken something special and made the killer feel what he had, even for a brief moment. It was a mild relief, satisfying even, to watch the killer choke on his own blood for once. 

Michael left the campfire almost as soon as he’d arrived. A few wise eyes noting what he’d collected, yet averting gaze when their eyes met, knowing it was akin to a mark of death. He still felt exhausted, a phantom pain echoing in his muscles, tearing into his back, he dropped down on a broken down bed as he reached home, his arm resting behind his head for a few moments, eyes slowly drifting shut.

——

A weight pressed against his stomach gently, the pressure slowly waking him from unconsciousness. His pupils dilated in shock as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, a white mask lingering over him, a camera held in the ghosts hands. Michael went to reach for the knife in his jacket, his wrists jolting against resistance as he went to attack. 

“Yeah, learned my lesson last time.” The killer raised his hand to his throat mockingly, stains of blood still wet, soaked into the fabric.

Michael pulled harder, the binding refusing to release him, he tried to look back over his head to assess the situation. The ghost had bound his hands with his belt. Michael twisted underneath the weight, struggling to pull himself free. 

“Unfortunately, I can’t kill you here. That would draw attention and I’m not meant to be here, neither are you. I guess that’s our shared little secret.” He slipped his hand into Michael’s jacket, retrieving his knife and running the blade over his fingers, tasting the familiarity and revelling in reclaiming it.

“Lucky for you after that shit you pulled.” He gestured the blade to Michael, pressing it against his throat and tipping his chin up. “For someone who doesn’t talk you’ve got a lot of attitude. Taking a lot of restraint to not just gut you here and now, and trust me, I had some new ideas I wanted to try out.”

The ghost lifted off his mask, pulling down a jet black undermask and revealing whiskey brown eyes, their depths alight with malice. Michael could feel his heart rate climbing, he had always hated feeling trapped, like a wild animal backed into a corner, all fangs and fury. He subconsciously kept pulling against the bindings, the belt only twisted, cutting deeper and deeper into his skin the more he fought. Michael could feel fire spreading across his wrists already, the wet warmth, yet it didn’t stop him, he’d sacrifice as much as he had to, to weaken it and get free. 

The ghost took the leather fingertip of his glove between his teeth, removing it, each movement lingering and deliberate to drag out the moments of helplessness. “You know, you’re kinda cute while you sleep. I’ve been here for a while, surprised it took you so long to wake up.”

Michael could feel his muscles locking up, his body frigid and unmoving as warm hands explored his bare skin. The cold night air burned his arms, an icy contrast to the pain in his wrists. His eyes were alight with defiance and anger as he pulled hard against the bindings again, it only seemed to tighten and lock more with resistance. 

The ghost teased the knife at his throat, knowing a single slip or the slightest pressure would slit it open. Michael felt his breath cease as the metal glided around the curves, his mind focused on how it teased cold lines over his collarbones, how it dipped against the hollow of his neck and trailed down between his pecs. The steel biting down harder as it crept over his stomach, just enough to break the skin, a burning sting following its path, the pain spilling forth memories of the latest death, each moment of it pouring unwelcome into his mind. 

Danny tilted his head slightly as he lightly touched his fingers to the wound, stroking blood down Michael's cheek as he held his face, refocusing the survivors eyes on him.

Michael pulled back further against the mattress as the ghost leaned in closer, slipping two of his fingers over Michael's bottom lip, pressing against his tongue and holding his mouth open. His other hand holding the knife against his tongue, knowing the survivor would bite him instantly without the threat. “Suck them, or I start removing teeth.” 

Michael wanted to bite down, hard, the cold metal warning against it as it pushed harder against his tongue, he obliged vehemently, his eyes locked with the killer. The ghost pulled his fingers back, now slick with saliva and warm, lowering his attention between the survivors thighs, lifting his legs enough to expose him.

He ran a single finger over the ring of muscle, pressing it deep inside and hearing his captives breathing catch, the muscle twitching from the sensation. Michael tensed at the intrusion, his body trembling as another finger pushed deep inside, the ghost smiled against his thigh, licking it and sending goosebumps over his skin. Each movement only made his body react more, his breath shuddering as he felt the fingers separate and press back together only to repeat in depth and intensity. 

A slight moment of relief crept over him as the fingers withdrew, the tension building again a second later as he felt kisses on the inner of his thighs, fingers trailing lightly, teasingly, over his shaft, caressing him gently. He kept his head pressed back hard against the mattress, the lack of vision only making his senses more tuned to each agonising touch. He could feel his body reacting and he hated it with each passing second. Unable to deny the ghost that satisfaction. He knew a reaction was exactly what the killer wanted. 

His thighs trembled as hot breaths washed over the skin, the tension coiling tighter in his gut as warmth pooled between his legs. He almost wanted it, a few more touches, he craved the release, the build up slow and painful yet the ghost now avoided the most sensitive areas, teasing around them instead. The killer stopped, satisfied with his work, Michael’s breaths trembling as his body quivered, the absence of touch agonising as his eyes met the ghosts once more. 

“Not yet Mikey. I’m not done, you really think I’d let you get off this easy?” The ghost tutted, fingers trailing every inch of skin lethargically, making each movement leisurely and as sensual as possible.

Danny smiled, enjoying every achingly slow second of the tease, the smallest reactions intoxicating as he baited release only to deny it once more, digging in his nails against the pale flesh of the thighs, scratching, cutting, biting, stabbing; each moment of pleasure met with an equally intense moment of pain. 

He stopped after a few minutes, the skin beaded with sweat, covered in crimson marks and drenched in blood. Michael shivered as warm hands crept across his scratched hips and thighs, he wanted it to end, being built up over and over, tauntingly close to release only to be dulled by pain, the tension making his body weak and quivering. 

“Ready to beg yet?” Danny smiled sadism as he ran his bloodied hands over the hips slipping under the survivors ass, straddling his form tightly and pinning his thighs to the bed. Michael’s breaths were little more than panting gasps of air, he laid his head back against the mattress only hoping the shroud would grow bored soon and end it. 

It was almost a relief when the ghost undressed, his movements on unzipping and revealing his own lust deliberately slow. Michael could feel his body ready to snap, the ghost forcing into him drawing air into his lungs painfully, his body reacting instantly the tension building to the edge for a final time as the ghost thrust his hips, Michael’s almost following instinctually, trying to get his release, his eyes half lidded as his breath shuddered. 

The moments felt like a blur, his body trapped between hot and cold, breaths bleeding vapour into the night, light drops of sweat beading across his skin as the ghost picked up pace, the first deeper thrust making him gasp audibly, the reaction only drawing out a more vicious, savage lusting pace from the killer. It didn’t take long for his body to give out, his breaths ceasing as his muscles contracted, the tension melting away. 

The build up and tease made the moment more intense than any he’d felt before, spilling warm release down the ghosts stomach as the killer met his own rapture, the warmth filling him up from within. Michael laid back, his body fatigued, still submerged in waves of pleasure as the ghost redressed and undid the restraints against his wrists, wrapping the belt back around his waist, pulling his coat closed, amused and seemingly unfazed by the mess he’d have to clean later underneath while wiping some away with his glove. 

Michael felt the crimson marks on his wrists waking up, burning painfully, his stomach, neck and thighs laced with blood, cuts, bites and scratches, all slowly making themselves known as he laid in place, weary and sedated, his fight snuffed out, the bliss fading.

The ghost fixed his mask, taking a mocking picture in frame with the survivor, knife a reclaimed trophy of victory in hand, before walking to the doorway, stopping only to wave back.

“See you in the next trial.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...finally I managed to post an update. Apologies. End of last year was not kind and I had a lot of stuff suddenly pile onto me so writing tanked. Anyway, thank you all for the kind feedback, I’m sorry to have missed so much time. So chapters 4-9 are now up as a form of apology. Please take them before I regret posting haha.
> 
> Side note: A lot of chapters got cut because I wasn’t happy with them, these were just too far above the threshold of what I’m willing to post. 
> 
> In saying that if the person who requested the ABO AU wants to read what I managed to write for it please let me know. I feel so bad for it being this long of a wait only to not post that chapter. I’m really sorry, I’m just not familiar with that area and don’t feel like I did it any justice.


	5. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Survivor AU Danny  
> Dumb challenges and regrets, that about sums it up

Danny released a sigh of relief as he reappeared at the campfire. The last trial had been intense, he’d just barely made it out in time. He could still feel the tension locked in his muscles. A soft hiss caught his attention, a wild flicker of light arced across the gamblers sunglasses as he nodded and gestured to follow. Ace always had that shit starting grin either when he had a new idea for their next trial or when he’d found out something interesting.

Danny followed him to the edge of the campfire grounds. Very few knew about this place, survivors, as they’d been apparently deemed, were allowed to go into the outer edges of the forest, at their own risk however; the two often used it as a place of contraband exchange, gossip and plotting. 

“You look like you found out something good.” Danny shot him a curious glance, the gamblers smile almost contagious.

“Not info. Item.” The smile beamed brighter as Ace reached into his coat pulling out a bottle of honey coloured liquid. 

“Shit. You found alcohol. How?” Danny took a seat, now even more interested in Ace’s story. It was difficult to come by anything worthwhile when venturing in the fog, especially without getting lost, or worse, stumbling into a killer's path. They were not under the entities protection beyond the fire, they'd be nothing more than glorified chew toys for any killer that found them. Not that it wasn’t more exciting than lazing around the campfire waiting for the next trial either way. He’d tried pushing his luck already, still unable to figure out how killers he followed just disappeared when he lost sight of them behind the trees. He’d investigate only to find nothing, he had no doubt it was another “limitation”.

“A man’s gotta keep his secrets. This doesn’t come for free either, it was tough to get, I got a challenge for you, if you’re interested.” Ace placed the bottle on the ground between them as bait, flashing a mischievous glance from behind his glasses. 

Danny tilted his head a little, unable to stop himself from mirroring the gambler's grin but his eyebrows creased with concern; his mind knew better, the anarchist smile was almost always off putting, it made his skin crawl even when they gambled. Every time Ace had that expression Danny either ended up losing everything in their strip poker bets or got his ass handed to him in a trial. They didn’t only cause trouble for the killer and their team but often each other. It was all for fun in the end, something to break up the monotony of the fog. Danny liked Ace’s challenges; even if more than once they landed them both hanging on a hook or worse.

“This is going to be interesting. Fine, let’s hear it.”

“I’ll give you the entire bottle, IF you can tap the killer in our next trial together and live.” 

Danny’s mind instantly offered the worst options, he’d be clubbed to death instantly if he even breathed on the Oni let alone grabbed his ass, he’d probably be clubbed into the next life. There would be no running from the spirit or deathslinger either. He wanted the alcohol though, it had been so long without food and drink he had almost forgotten what they were like; they were more an optional bonus and absolute blessing if they could be sourced in good condition. He still couldn’t help but wonder where the gambler had snaked it from, making himself a mental note to find out more later. He weighed it up, he could get lucky but he shuddered to think about touching the clown or hag. Either way it was worth a shot, it would no doubt make things more interesting.

“Alright, and if I lose?” 

Ace laughed “Losing will probably be painful enough after doing that, but, if you insist.” He singsonged while shrugging jokingly, his grin glinting in the pale moonlight. 

“No no no, you agreed to losing being enough, you’re right, don’t need insult to the injury.” Danny smiled and waved his hand dismissively playing off the idea as fast as possible hoping the gambler wouldn’t pursue a punishment. He didn’t have much left to offer, or that he was willing to lose. 

Ace smirked and put the bottle away in one of his stash areas of the forest, a hollowed out rut he moved often so no one could ever discern its location. Yet. Danny definitely had tried on a number of occasions, even got close a few times, not that he’d openly admit it. They both cast knowing glances at each other later at the campfire as the smoke consumed them. 

A low droning hum crept in his ears, it was time for another trial, finally. The wait was what killed him, the trials were the best part, he loved the anticipation, the adrenaline, riling up any killer the entity sent his way. The rage he could draw out was addictive, it made escaping in their face despite all attempts on his life even better. Still, he almost always knew how to disappear when the heat was too much. 

Soft snow filtered in the nearby window as his vision returned, the wind gently shuttering it open and closed. He hated this place, it was suffocatingly enclosed, nothing more than the decaying carcass of a mental hospital. Exposed wires flickered and hissed with life; the electricity was alive in this building and occasionally you could still hear it screaming. Danny started on the nearest generator, knowing too well sometimes the best way to lure a killer was to be the first one to make some noise. 

The start of the trial was always a buzzing hum of excitement, unsure of who the killer was, what the layout would be, the entity changed everything each time, each realm a shifting puzzle; piecing together and rearranging constantly. A scream echoed through the halls, he sighed, exasperated, the sound letting him know he wasn’t lucky first this time. 

Light poured over him as the generator roared to life, the electricity humming in the walls. Danny cursed mentally as water dripped down the back of his neck when he walked through a narrow doorway, the drops falling from rusted pipes above, a soft tapping echoing between the tiles as they pooled on the floor. Another scream assaulted his ears as another teammate met the killer, he was growing impatient. 

Briefly he wondered if saving the teammate from the hook would be the best way to find the killer. Some defended their kills, bodies reduced to nothing more than hanging meat, bait to the altruistic. Danny realised it was Ace, wanting to jokingly jab his wounded pride, an innuendo maybe about the fact he went down so fast, he’d always given Danny shit for getting hooked easily. Instead, he quietly lifted him down, almost unable to hide the smile as he heard the footsteps drawing closer, narrowly avoiding a knife in his back. 

His brows furrowed, mildly insulted as he watched the killer leave in pursuit of Ace, he followed the blood trail, turning the corner just in time to see Ace trapped at a corner of the hallway. Danny held his breath and crept up behind the killer who was frozen in place, lifeless almost, watching the injured survivor like a spider waiting to snatch a tangled fly. Enjoying its fear and dragging out the final moments before the strike. 

Danny’s eyes met the gamblers as he made the grab, the killer recoiling instantly and driving the blade into the wall beside Danny’s head as if it were paper, he had barely dodged it. Seeing the concrete splintered sent a cold chill down his spine, realising that the crumbling hole in the wall could have been in his skull; his hands dropped a few degrees. 

His heart rate instantly peaked, the moment feeling slowed as he scrambled out of the way of an outreached hand and to his feet, breaking out in a sprint at a speed he'd never managed before. A constricting force tightened his chest as he took off, he didn’t need to look back to know he had the killers undivided attention, and wrath. He wanted to get chased and now as he cast a glance back; seeing the killer in hot pursuit, knife raised and storming at him, bloodlust heavy in the air, footsteps gaining; he almost regretted that decision. Almost. 

Danny only just made it through a window as the killer grew more aggressive, his strides longer and knife begging for blood. He could feel the suffocating pressure. Still, he loved the sound of the knife barely missing, the scratch of steel on concrete, he rounded another corner, the adrenaline buzzing, he contemplated taunting the killer for missing but with how close they had been he decided to keep running, as if he needed to give them more reason to gut him.

He cast another glance back noticing the killer had given up, disappointing. His breath caught in his throat as the shape lunged around the corner to his left, his eye catching it just in time to flinch and turn, the blade digging deep into his shoulder instead of his chest, drawing out a cry of pain as he fell. He couldn’t help gritting his teeth as the killer picked him up, his struggles intense, he hated this part the most, not only the hit to his ego at loss of a chase but the rusted hook piercing his back, he always held his breath subconsciously before the moment his flesh hit the cold steel. 

He slowly raised his hands to the hook, fingers shaking from the injury, by habit he found holding the hook tense in one hand took his mind off the pain. Waiting to be saved was like waiting for a miracle, his team often abandoned him for his actions and Ace was likely still injured. He hated feeling so helpless and struggling only made the entity grow more impatient. Danny watched the spidery tendrils slowly manifest around him, his eyes meeting the shapes once more as the killer came back to check, just as the entity began its attempt on his life. If he wasn’t fighting for it, he’d flip the killer off. His eyes a sharp, fixed glare while hollowed blank ones stared back, watching him struggle for a few moments before leaving silently.

Danny sighed, relieved as he heard soft footsteps echoing in the room behind him, the botanist, of course, she was his saving grace most matches, her empathy too high to let anyone die. He gritted his teeth, the pain reigniting as she pulled him free; only for the relief to be instantly replaced with a mix of frustration and a rising sickness unmistakeable for fear as he saw the killer round the nearest corner just as his feet touched the ground. Danny ran without looking back, his chest still burning from the hook, he only hoped it would go for another survivor. He knew how unlikely that was, he was the weaker target, added to the fact he was already top of the killers priority list. 

Danny quickly looked for a way out, he couldn’t run forever and his next capture would be his last. The room was a dead end, he forfeited to climbing into a locker only hoping something would lead the killer in the wrong direction. Heavy footsteps in the hall behind the locker made his hands colder as they drew closer. He held his breath, eyes locked on the sterile light filtering through the slits in the locker door.

He almost felt his heart stop as hollowed black eyes met his through the grates. A creeping dread warned he’d pushed it too far this time, he’d seen killers gain the entities blessing to take a life by their own hand for fun, often more brutal ways than having your soul ripped out over and over by some glorified spider. Danny knew it was likely he was going to be gutted, a hook seemed a blessing at this point, at least then he’d just wake up at the campfire. He had no curiosity of what it felt like to have your skull bashed in or insides ripped from you while you were still breathing. 

He’d watched it happen to teammates out of curiosity but he didn’t want to experience it first hand. His mind raced between jumping out and trying to run but his body locked in place as the expressionless mask watched him in unnerving silence. He’d never been cornered like this before. 

The looming shadow disappeared for a moment, a groaning metallic noise grated his ears before the shadow returned, a scraping noise echoing over the centre of the locker the only movement before the killer left. Danny remained still for a few moments, the cry of a freshly injured teammate letting him know it was safe to come out, only, he couldn’t. A single light push turned into pressing both palms to the locker door with all the force he could put behind it, the door jittering as if, jammed. A haunting realisation hit him as he realised the killer had locked him in, barring the handles with twisted pipe from a nearby medical bed.

A mild panic hit as he slammed his fists against the wood, the metal reinforcements stopping the impact from doing any real damage. He only hoped the assault would pry the bar free or draw some attention from another survivor to help. His thoughts were no help to the situation, he knew the hospital was huge, what were the chances someone would wander past his one of the fifty other identical lockers, they’d be too focused on tasks and escaping. He heard his team slowly dying, each scream a sick timer letting him know his chance to get out was decreasing with each anguished cry. His heart was pounding in his ears as he heard chases start and end nearby. 

Soon the only sound left was his own breaths, a panic creeping unwelcome into each shaky exhale. It was completely silent outside, he could hear every drip of water pooling beside his locker. His heart rate started creeping up as he heard the footsteps in the far hallway draw closer and closer, achingly slow, until they stopped before his locker. He didn’t even process he was shaking, a cold sweat lacing his skin. He’d never felt this powerless and he hated every second. 

Bitter thoughts rose bile to the back of his throat. Each second was a different torture as he was left alone with savage thoughts, mocking his failure, what led him to being absolutely dead. The pale face simply lingered in front of his locker, he seemed to enjoy the fear, dragging it out. Of course he would. Danny seethed at the thought. The fuck was probably getting off on his fear, his embarrassing loss after being so cocky.

The metal groaned as the shape untwisted the pipe, the surgical light slowly pouring over Danny, bloodied and sweating with panic. Danny forced himself to meet eyes with the aggressor, he wasn’t going to cower in fear, the thought didn’t stop the betrayal of his body, every muscle tensed, his hands like ice to the touch. 

“Can’t we just talk about this?” He managed to choke out before the killer abruptly grabbed him, a crushing grip locked around his throat as he was held off the ground in front of them. He could smell the gore, blood and sweat radiating off them, this was easily one of the more intimidating killers he’d seen yet. Spider like in his method, unassuming until close enough to kill with a single hit, no expression, no guilt, only the instinct to hunt and kill.

Danny’s hands raised subconsciously to protect his throat, attempting to pry the grip, the lack of oxygen tugging at the tightness in his chest, he was exhausted. It was now he realised his entire left sleeve was sticking to his arm, rust red with blood. His senses finally registered that he’d been bleeding out in the locker. A deepening sickness made it a struggle to stay conscious as the grip tightened. The insult to injury being the droning hum on the edge of perception, he could hear it on the other side of the wall. The hatch, the final survivors last chance of escape when all other hope was gone.

“Please, I’ll do whatever you want.” His voice was gravelly and broken, he didn’t know if the killer had heard the words, the blood loss almost making him too far gone to know if he’d even spoken them correctly. The shape tilted his head to one side, considering the plea, his knife dripping with blood of the other victims and still thirsting for more. Danny felt the entire world fade away for a moment as he was dropped back against the wall, the knife piercing the concrete beside his head, the wet warmth against his neck and hand groping his ass almost felt surreal.

As consciousness slowly returned he felt the heat against his chest, the shape pinning him to the wall, he knew he had to make this worth it, there was no guarantee the killer would honour the wordless deal but it was better to take a chance than being gutted then and there. He slowly raised a hand to the overalls, tentatively pulling the zip and carefully pulling them down to the shapes waist. He almost smiled as he noticed the bulge, slightly damp already. 

If it weren’t so degrading he almost enjoyed getting to see and touch what was hidden under all the layers, admiring the body, toned yet a snow like complexion, calloused scars mapping his skin from chest to back. Danny gently slipped his fingers down between the shape's thighs, feeling the throbbing against his palm as he curled his fingers around the length. Slowly he worked his hand along the shaft, feeling the shape react to the touch against his neck, biting down as he grew impatient.

Danny took the warning and increased his pace, still not enough, the shape pulling back and pushing him down against the wall, Danny’s face now level with his lust. Danny knew exactly what he expected, he slowly taunted the tip with his tongue slowly sliding the length in to pace himself, almost choking as he was forced to take it deeper faster than expected. Fingers knotted in his hair and held him in place as he felt the tip reach the back of his throat, the throbbing against his tongue. Soft gagging noises were the only sound to escape as he endured, the grip on his hair painfully tightening as the shape got closer to release. He couldn’t breathe, his chest burning as his head moved reflexively against the strokes.

The salty release lingered on his tongue as the shape finished and withdrew, the relief immense as he was allowed air once more, coughing and struggling, dark tendrils of hair spilling over his sweat laced brow as he slumped against the wall. The sickness had returned as the shape redressed, pulling his knife from the wall and picking up the beaten mess.

Danny felt his heart drop as the shape stomped the hatch closed with him still held on his shoulder, he began to struggle with a renewed fury, he knew a killer would always choose a kill in the end than risk punishment for letting a survivor go. 

“Fuck you” He rasped, his throat still raw.

The air was knocked from his chest as he was discarded, dropped uncaringly to the ground next to it, the shape staring at him in silence before leaving momentarily. Danny sat there, puzzled, he expected to be stabbed for cursing the killer or for being a dick in general earlier. The killer returned, hand outstretched, a gift clenched in his fist. A bloodied item taken from a nearby broken hook, the owner long since gone.

Danny glared between the offering and the killer, unamused, a key. The killer had closed the hatch to mess with him one last time before the end. Danny cautiously took the key and slipped it into the rust encrusted trap door, thick black fog spilling out from the edges as he stood up to meet the killer's eyes once more. 

“Thanks.” He managed to choke out, still bitter about the events of the trial, his pride and ego the only things sacrificed yet somehow that almost felt worse. The shape watched silently as Danny slipped in, defeated, falling into the fog, the survivor casting one last glance up, barely making out the faint visage of the expressionless white mask before the darkness took him. 

Ace’s smile dropped mid conversation, rapidly replaced with shock as Danny stepped out of the fog, his body and clothes still bloody but his injuries already erased. Ace had, without a doubt, expected to see Danny’s body materialise next to the fire. 

“How the hell did you get out? You pissed him off so much. I’ve never seen a killer beeline for a survivor with more murderous intent.” Ace rasped, tone spiking with disbelief.

Danny held out the bloodied black key, Ace’s defeat creased expression only deepening momentarily before a slightly impressed smirk crept in.

“You lucky bastard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was dumb but it was fun, after all the Michael survivor AU stuff this wouldn’t leave me. Danny as a survivor is just funny to me, especially picturing him starting shit with Ace. I just like to imagine Michael is chill about the other survivors and kills them normally but with Danny it’s tombstone, on sight. Danny’s the kind of cocky survivor that would end up face camped or mori’d every single trial because he can’t resist taunting the killer, you can’t convince me otherwise.


	6. Pursuit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are better left alone and some secrets better when kept

An unnerving chill crept through the attic, the floorboards groaning softly as Danny adjusted his footing. The roof was laced with dust, everything in the realm rarely seemed to age yet sometimes they began to be buried underneath filth. His eyes focused through the cracks filtering in pale moonlight; the shape was leaning back against the flower adorned couch, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. Danny listened intently, for breaths, shifting movements, anything while carefully waiting for the right time; hard to do when he didn’t even know if it slept at all. Sleeping wasn’t a necessity in this place, fatigue existed but never hunger or extreme weariness, it became more of an optional way to pass time between trials. Sometimes a brief moment of black out was better than dealing with the others. He could understand that, but he almost always found his own form of entertainment in tormenting them.

After a few more minutes, caught between anticipation and patience, he carefully opened the attic door, slowly lowering himself down, dropping almost silently into the upper level of the house. He crept down the stairs; he’d taken note on the way in which steps and spots groaned and creaked, avoiding each with ease while slowly making his way towards the silent killer. He needed to check the shape was not going to attack, with what he had in mind if he was caught he knew he’d be dead faster than he could blink, with that thought his eyes carefully glanced over the kitchen knife resting under the shapes hand. Quietly, he slipped behind the couch, slowly rising to his height behind the figure, his breath held silent as he brought a hand down before the blank hollowed eyes. The pale mask gave no indication of a reaction, he half expected to jump through the roof if the shape grabbed his hand, instead the killer remained motionless. No movement except the rise and fall of their chest. 

Relieved, he tentatively prepared himself for the next part, his heart rate causing a resounding thrumming in his ears as he removed cold leather gloves and slipped warm fingers under the edges of the snowy latex. He paused, listening to each breath while deciding between continuing on and running as fast and far as he could in the vital seconds before he was inevitably gutted. It didn’t last, death never did, but the lectures from the entity and it knowing he had found a way between the realms beyond its control was less desirable; not that the getting cold steel through his organs part was any more enjoyable.

The curiosity kept his hands steady as he pulled the mask upwards softly, a small amount at a time. A few heart racing moments later he had pulled the mask to its peak, one final movement removing it entirely. 

A cool wave of anticipation arose as he stepped around the figure, now looking more like Michael than the shape, brunet hair curled messily over his forehead, a ghostly white scar carved from eye to jaw. Danny’s fingers absently brushed it, tracing it down his cheek with his thumb, wondering briefly how he got it and with a grimace, remembering how he’d received his own. Like a bitter taste the memories returned, a mistake made on his first ever kill, he was too ambitious, a clumsy moment, a mistake, a victims strike back, the feeling of glass against his skull unforgettable; the memory awakening a dull buzz in the scarred flesh. 

He touched his own scar, etched in skin as a permanent reminder of that failure and he hated it, he prided himself on clean silent kills after that. Something about seeing this intimidating killer with a scar too, on the same side even, lessened the furrow in his brow. On him it seemed a sign of unrelenting dedication, he’d even lost vision yet Danny didn’t think for a second that stopped the shape. Nothing could stop that thing when he was determined, focused. The thought almost made Danny hate his own scar a little less, he had grown from his own mistake too, now barely a sound made it into the night when he decided to strike, unless he wanted it to. He’d near perfected his art. 

Danny quietly reached into his robe, the camera a weighted reminder how real the moment was, it felt so strange, surreal almost, to be seeing the human face of the shape, supposedly an unkillable emotionless void.

Slowly he raised the camera, taking a few quick pictures before looking down at the mask in his hand, feeling like he’d scalped the creature, removed it’s very essence, the second skin, now seemingly even more lifeless in his hands. This thing was nothingness, nihilism personified, yet the being before him was strikingly human, warm skin, soft hair, peaceful breathing, almost cute as he slept; if you forgot he could crush your skull with ease. Still cute even then. 

All monsters are human, right? He mused to himself mentally with a grin, such a tired outdated saying yet in this moment somehow accurate, he returned from his thoughts, looking back to the shape only to notice his eyelids were flicking; he was waking up. 

Danny’s heart dropped, the dread and adrenaline instantly spiking as he released the mask and ran, his ribbons whipping in the chilled midnight air as he cast a glance back, seeing the dark figure standing at the window, watching, he knew he was done. There was no way Michael would let him get away after that.

He was so used to being the hunter, stalking, following, watching, waiting, now he was being hunted, each crackle of branches an assault on his alert senses. He knew it was following him, he could feel it, frigid eyes on his back, burning fervid holes through him. Was hiding even an option? Did he really want to? He realised what it was, the feeling, it was fun, exciting, trying to guess where the shape would strike from, how close was he? Did he know about the pictures?

A blur of steel slashed through his arm as the shape lunged from the inky black between the trees. The cut barely even registered as he pulled away, his camera falling from his robe in the attack, crimson leaking down exposed flesh. The shape took advantage of his attire, wrapping a hand in the shrouds ribbons and pulling viciously jolting his entire body backwards, the impact as he hit the ground numbing, a mild warning of pain to follow. A frigid hand wrapped around his throat, the shape pulling him up to eye level effortlessly, a murderous glare barely visible within the darkness of the expressionless mask. 

Danny didn’t even have time to fight back before the knife was thrust into his gut, the sensation unfamiliar, painful. He subconsciously let out a choked cry of pain, a reflex reaction yet his eyes were locked with the shapes, searching them, watching, was he enjoying this? A smile crept across Danny’s lips as the shape dropped him indifferently, like discarded trash, his knees impacting the forest floor, he slumped forward, the warm blood weeping through his fingers. Colours began to drain from the world, fading to dull grey as cold swept his body, the collision soundless as his head hit the ground. 

——

A searing pain ripped through his body, agony escaping in a pained, exhaled breath, bleeding frost into the air as he sat up, the blood still wet on his waist. It seemed Michael didn't give warnings, nor did he forgive slights on him, clearly a stab first, ask questions never type. Amusing. Danny’s fingers searched for the wound only to find unbroken skin, as if it never happened. Quickly his mind turned to the camera he’d dropped earlier, glad now he had lost it otherwise Michael would have certainly crushed it. He had no doubts on that. 

Danny quickly rose to his feet, legs still numb yet he ran lethargically towards where his blood was first spilt, a trail of broken branches, blood and gashed trees leading the way. He searched the cold dew laced grass, his hands hitting something solid, spreading an ecstatic grin across his face as he lifted the camera. It still worked, he flicked through the recent additions, eyes lighting up as he found the newest pictures, it was definitely worth it, he now had one of the rarest sights in the fog captured forever. 

He contemplated showing the other killers briefly before slipping the camera back in his robe. This was his to enjoy alone, a secret like this remained better when kept personal. It was something only he knew and that thought remained as he returned towards the campfire, his smile unwavering. He knew he’d find a way to see that side of the shape again.


	7. Motivation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for major character death in this one, more vivid and vicious than previous. I mean it’s dbd definition of death but still.

Michael shifted uncomfortably, his hands bloody and torn from stress, subconsciously digging his nails into the skin with each breath. It was how he dealt with what the others always called feelings, he hated feeling emotionally charged in any way, it was sickening, unknown and unwelcome. 

He remembered when it had arrived in the fog, greeting everyone warmly, drawing all eyes, loud, obnoxious, he already felt bitter disdain. As the killer drew closer to him, holding out a hand, he had ignored it and turned to leave. He didn’t care about these things. He had no interest in the others, especially not in maintaining relationships with them; yet the gaze made his skin crawl, eyes burning into his back as the ghost feigned confusion. It was a second face, the creature's true eyes regarding him ravenously. 

At first it seemed to keep its distance, he knew it watched him. Michael tensed as he felt a hand touch his arm, the ghost stopping him in his tracks. 

“What’s up big guy? I didn’t get the chance to meet you earlier.”

Michael’s hand twitched, gripping his knife tighter, white knuckled, an elastic reaction begging to snap back and impale the smaller killer. He swallowed down the urge, pulling away, he didn’t need another lecture from the entity right now, he had a trial to get to, the orange veins of flame already spreading across his hands.

—-

The trial was like any other, he cut through flesh and broke bones with ease until not a single living breath but his own remained. It was the same outcome every time, occasionally he’d be overcome with the urge to kill. Bathed in the scent of blood, taking life with his own hands; and the entity would allow it, it knew he’d repay the meal through other trials, the fear he instilled with his bloodlust fed the entity more than a single hook. 

He watched with curiosity, tilting his head slightly as their glossy eyes met his, the terror reflected within as he drove the blade deeper, through viscera and muscle, spilling warm blood over his hands. They all died the same, all reduced to husks of flesh and bone in seconds, the life extinguished, snuffed out like a mere candle flame. The bodies fading as the blood cooled and dried on his hands. Very few escaped his grasp. The ones who did managed to hold his attention a little longer, until they died the same again and he lost interest. The fog settled around his feet as he returned home, his shoulder sore from retaliation of his latest victim. He locked a fist around a long thin shard of glass, pulling it out and throwing it carelessly to the asphalt, hearing it shatter into pieces.

He stopped in place on the porch, blood leaking between his fingers as he noticed a slight dirt print, boots, much smaller than his own. His eyes narrowed, opening the door and surveying the house, nothing appeared out of place, whatever had intruded hadn’t managed to get inside the house. A thought crossed his mind, a dull siren on the edge of his brain. 

What if he interrupted them? 

He returned to the window, brushing the curtains back, his suspicion confirmed as he watched a shadow dart away at the end of the street. 

It was new, uncomfortable and unsettling, this was his realm, the only place he could be alone, no one had ever been able to enter it outside trials, was it just paranoia? He glanced back over to the porch, the prints were real, weren’t they? He walked to the last place he’d seen the shadow, pushing back thistle bushes, revealing no signs anyone had ever been there.

——

“Michael, right?”

Michael froze at the sound of the voice, turning to meet the ghostly mocking mask once more, he wondered briefly how the ghost had learned his name, he hated the way it rolled off the killer's tongue, he wanted to cut it out. 

“I heard we’ve got some things in common. You stalk your victims too, slowly draw out the fear in them, I’d love to see you in action.” 

The emphasis on love lingered on the killer's tongue. Michael started back silently, unamused, he was glad that at least within the trials the ghost couldn’t follow him, he was quickly growing tired of being stalked by the new killer. It felt like a cold shadow constantly haunting his back, latching to him whenever it could. Asking questions, watching intently, unfazed by his silence and hostility. He could feel every movement he made being analysed. It felt familiar, his brain aching, a cardinal hatred arose from somewhere deep within where it had been locked away; he wasn’t to be observed like some animal in a cage.

——

The next trial felt surreal, something was watching, his body recoiling from the glance, tightening, frustration boiling beneath his skin when he couldn’t pinpoint the source. He kicked a generator viciously, feeling the metal crunch relieving under foot, whipping around to find the source of the eyes on his back, a black flicker atop the pile of crushed cars. He blinked, the shadow gone, he held a hand over his eyes, his head aching, he’d never felt this unwell during a trial before. Or in general. He never felt the need for rest, hunger, nothing; nothing had a feeling or urge associated with it anymore and he didn’t miss any of it.

Michael decided to ignore it, he managed to kill three, sending them screaming to the entity, the last just barely escaping his lunge at the gate. He’d never lost one before, he gripped his hands tight into fists, his breathing deep and irritated. The entity whispered in his head that three was enough:

Their hope from this escape will be better to taste when you take it from them next time.

Michael huffed, it wasn’t about feeding the entity, it was about the hunt, he hated failing, letting any escape, he caught each before now easily, this time the distraction had cost him that. It was only as the fog returned him he felt the wet warmth of blood pooling in his palms, finally releasing his self destructive grip.

The ghost waited for him in the woods near the fire, Michael ignored it, brushing past, he wanted nothing more than to be alone in that moment.

“I heard you were good, unstoppable even, the inhuman shape, nothing but bloodlust and emptiness, too bad one managed to escape. You sure look bitter about it for something that lacks humanity...” The ghost shrugged with his typical exaggerated movement, his light tone darkening as he spoke, his joking facade draining. “If the stories are to be believed, that is.”

Michael stopped, how did he know that one got out? He had been in the trial, how? As he turned to hear the ghost out for once he was gone, leaving Michael with the words echoing in his head. Beneath the mask his teeth were locked tight, gritted; the tightening in his jaw making him realise how his whole body oozed frustration. No wonder the ghost had mocked him, with a vented breath he returned to his realm. 

——

The wind howled solemnly as he opened his eyes, hand clenched tight to the handle of the knife, this was the time to redeem himself of the last trial. The sickness and paranoia distracting him. Moments passed in a blur, his mind semi blank from the focus, vision white at the edges, his only objective to kill, each only had one chance left, their next hooks their last, one was already dead. As he threw one on to the serrated steel meat hook a flash caught his eye, whipping towards it he noticed the dim cowshed light reflecting off the steel, tricks of the mind again, he shook his head.

A flicker of black disappeared past the door frame as he approached, he knew it was the ghost, it had to be, Michael weighed up the options, he couldn’t disappoint the entity again, but he had to confirm it. If he gave this one moment to remove the distraction for good, it would be worth it. He followed the direction it had darted off in, investigating everything, behind every corner. Nothing, again. Yet the feeling of being watched still tensed him up, coiling in his gut, he hated it, knowing that thing lurked so close yet he could never seem to catch it in the act. 

Michael sighed, hearing the final warning of the trial, two were still alive. With each trial getting worse, he needed to seek out the cause of the problem.

——  
His realm no longer felt dead, he heard it; the footsteps downstairs, the creaking floorboards, the crunching of the gravel outside as it crept under the window. He no longer bothered to chase it, he knew it was futile. Like smoke slipping through his fingers. It always found a way to disappear. Instead, he closed his eyes, listening intently, once even hearing breaths mere fingertips away from being within grabbing distance. Still, he didn’t move, he wanted to observe it as much as it observed him, wait for it to get too curious, too close. He knew how to be patient, his head ached at that thought, as if some part deep within knew that he’d spent half of his life waiting. 

Wait he would. Until it was too late for it to run.

——

A crackling fire swayed to his left as the fog settled, flexing his fingers as they reappeared, his grip white knuckled to his knife. He watched the survivors, working away at the generator unaware. He barely noticed he was shaking, his grip tightening on the blade still, it was taking too long, by now the bloodlust would grow. He’d feel the tightening in his muscles, the desire to feel their warmth fade as he took the life from within, watch the blood painting his blade crimson, to hear the screams, taste the fear as they ran. Nothing. He felt nothing but unease.

He felt sick, his hands more than ghostly white as they trembled, he held his hand to his forehead, the heat rising as he saw flickers of black at the edges of his vision, the killer everywhere and nowhere. The ghost was haunting him and he knew it, days becoming weeks, a writing rot in his brain, always on the edge of perception. Michael swallowed back the ambivalence, deciding to attack, they never heard him coming, maybe if he could see the pain, start the fire burning again he could come back. His blade dug into nothing but the wood, the survivors long gone.

When had they left?

He managed to catch one alone, barely able to hook them, holding his hands fast to his head once more. It was already over and he knew it, the entity’s words like sharp wire to his throat, tightening, cutting deep, lashing, it was furious, one was not enough, his increasing failures not going unnoticed. He clenched his jaw, biting into his tongue, physically forcing the voice from his head as the fog consumed him, the dust settling as he was returned to the forest near the campfire. He already knew it would be waiting for him. 

“What’s wrong? That was a less than impressive performance, lacking the bloodlust Mikey? Maybe I could give you a few tips.” The shroud laughed, tone deride and drenched with malice.

Michael glared at the ghost, heat radiating off him as he approached the killer. 

Patience

He clenched his fist, digging the blade into the tree beside the ghosts head, a warning. He watched the inky figure raise his hands in joking defense and slink away amused. Michael’s eyes locked on the killer until it was no longer visible; the figure melting away into the darkness between the trees. He pulled the blade from the bark effortlessly, the fog ensnaring his body as he returned to his own realm. He needed to know how the creature was getting in, if he could even stop it. He waited at the end of the street, obscured by tall trees, he knew it wouldn’t be able to resist. He’d wait as long as he needed to until it showed it’s mocking face.

A soft rustling snapped his attention to the street, the black veiled killer stepping out of the fog, ribbons lingering behind as he crouched, surveying the area. Michael knew his feeling was right, he didn’t mind the few hours of waiting, he was being followed constantly, now he had the chance to observe it. He watched it creep up the street, stopping occasionally at other houses, disappearing inside briefly before reappearing. Michael tried to keep distance, he knew the intruder would be alert to even the slightest movement or sound. He noticed it had already looked in his direction when he’d stepped onto the asphalt, hiding behind the van just in time to avoid being spotted. 

The killer seemed to stop for a moment at the Myers house, gazing at the building, something in hand, Michael’s eyes narrowed as he attempted to focus. He almost wanted to catch it in the act, but he knew it was better to wait it out, watching and learning what it’s intentions were. Heat arose deep within his veins as he watched on, insulted by how fast the small killer was able to get inside, almost second nature, like he’d done it a million times. That bothered him even more. The place where he once felt safe and alone, this new killer had found its way in, almost taking up residence. 

The few minutes felt like an eternity before the ghostly mask reappeared at the porch, the killer making sure to fix evidence of his entry before leaving, the fog wrapping around him as he disappeared. Michael waited a few more moments, he stared at the window the killer had touched, nothing looked altered, except the complete lack of dust, both windows had been cleared at some point, the lack of contrast making it easier to overlook on passing than marks in the dust.

He unlocked the door, the hinges creaking softly as he pushed it open, the darkness lurking at the edges. He looked at the inner side of the window, no boot prints, nothing. The killer was thorough, it was almost impressive, except that it was slighting him. Michael drifted from room to room, looking for any signs of what he’d seen in the ghost's hand, his search stopping at the main bedroom, a small package on the nightstand, wrapped in duct tape and marred with blood. 

Michael tilted his head as he lifted it, it was light, thin. He almost didn’t want to open it, knowing it was a “gift” from that thing. It could be anything, and the blood didn’t help the image, though it could be coated in worse. He pinned it against the table, not caring even slightly if he cut through to the wood, his blade slicing through the tape and plastic with ease. He spilled the contents onto his hand, a note stuck to a smaller plastic envelope.

Thought I’d give you a gift, something just for you. I think you’ve figured it out by now. It’s a shame you never smiled, but at least I know about the skeletons in your closet now.

He opened the envelope, sliding out a few photos, the heat in his hands rising as he instantly recognised where they had been taken. The first in the first trial he’d failed, the following different angles and images from all the trials he’d done in the past since the ghost had arrived. The last four images made him livid, each taken within his own realm. The first was a night vision shot, the angle making it clear it was taken from the house across the street. His grip on the pictures tightened as he saw the photo of Judith’s tombstone and his other collected items, things he felt a certain confusing way about, personal things he kept secret and hidden in a closet in his room. 

The third was a simple close up of him, while sleeping, the photographers gloved hand resting against his mask, the fourth making him crush the photos instantly; the ghostly mocking mask posed next to him as he slept, his mask removed, snowy skin exposed and glowing in the pale moonlight. Michael threw the crumpled images to the floor, throwing open the closet, noticing immediately that something was missing, a fist sized piece of the tombstone. He clenched his fists, slamming the closet shut and storming down the stairs, his fury stopped by the orange burns spreading over his hands. A trial, of course, just as he’d confirmed all his suspicions, just as he was out for blood; and blood they’d get.

In seconds the first drop was spilled, the fury making him unstoppable, there was no escape, nowhere to run, he gutted them each, the warm liquid clinging to his overalls as he buried the knife deep beneath flesh and bone. His breaths bled out seething as he found the last one, cornered and afraid, his hand wrapped to their throat, pulling them off the ground viciously, sliding the knife into their stomach, his eyes lit up with fury as he pushed the blade deeper, watching their features contort with pain before throwing the lifeless husk to the ground. He didn’t even hear the entities screeching protests as he was taken by the fog. 

His heart was still pulsing liquid fire through his veins as he spotted the ghost, he was nothing if not consistent, watching each trial, this time he seemed pleased with himself, a smile creeping across his lips as he watched the shape approach. Michael’s glare intensified, his eyes narrowing, fully intent on wiping that grin from its face. 

The ghost didn’t even get a word in before the shape locked his fingers around his neck, holding him in the air. The ghost's hands drew to his neck defensively, trying to pry the grip enough to breathe, the shape crushing harder in response, his eyes locked with the other killer’s. Michael felt the pulse against his fingers; just another life he could extinguish. The choking was white noise as he watched the killer struggle in his grip, he hadn’t even taken the knife to flesh yet. He glanced down at the blade in his hand, the taunts, the stalking, the images, all burned into his mind, tightening his grasp on it. He hadn’t tried killing another killer yet, though no other had been so eager to cross him.

He pushed the blade in deep, feeling the ghost tense as the metal slid in, Michael’s eyes searching the ghosts expression, it was different, unlike any survivor, he wasn’t afraid of it, he was still smiling, blood spilling between his teeth and he was still smiling. 

He hated the smug smirks, the constant jeers, he just wanted peace, to be left alone. Instead this creature stalked him endlessly, he didn’t understand how it had a talent of appearing just as he was at his worst. His anger was wordless, formless, yet still it leaked steadily through his kills and actions. Bubbling magma just beneath the frozen surface. But that thing had a way of drawing out things from the very depths of him, intense things he’d never felt, like a mosquito to blood.

Michael pushed the blade deeper, his face meeting the ghosts, barely a breath away, still nothing, the killer was feeling it, the pain, his body was trembling, his arms losing strength but he was still satisfied. Michael threw the killer against the ground, teeth bared under his mask, breath seething, his hands constricted around the killers neck, the struggles weakening, he didn’t want him dead, not yet. He held him down, bringing the blade down on his chest, again, and again. Still smiling. He wasn’t fighting back either, enjoying the raw ravenous display as if he wanted to know what would happen next; as if he was merely watching a movie play out, not a single concern that he was in it.

Michael kept stabbing, viciously giving in to instinct and fuelled by fury, each wound drenching him a deeper shade of red, sticky and wet, clinging to his hands and overalls, soaking through to his shirt, to his chest. He was coated in it, the twisted grin still there. The ghosts fingers were locked shut on something, loosening with each vicious stab, the missing tombstone piece he’d taken to incite the attack. 

“Thought you could use some motivation. Gotta admit, you never looked more like Michael and less like the shape than you do now. I knew you had something in there. You got me all excited to see more.” He laughed, the words were barely a whisper over gargled blood, the ghosts expression borderline ecstatic.

Michael panted, thrown by the killer's words, his breaths bleeding fast and rapid as he watched the sick amusement drain from the other killer, his eyes glossing over as an orange flare rushed over him, like paper in a fire, his skin going black with orange cracks, turning to ash.

Sitting alone now in the pool of blood, drenched, Michael felt the maelstrom of uncomfortable feelings and rage settle. He could hear the angry whispers of the entity in his mind but he soon drowned those out too, leaving only the soft howl of the wind, the rustle of the trees. 

It was temporary silence, but it was silence. 

——

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically an old request (mindbreak/snuff request) that I put a slight spin on because I wanted to explore early dynamics, my take on Danny is basically that he’s addicted to any hint of reaction or humanity he can draw out of Michael so I wanted to write something on taking that concept too far.


	8. Saccharine

Old gnarled birch trees groaned as the first strand of leather slipped out of the fog, it had been a few weeks, or as best as he could tell, since he’d stirred the pot with the shape. His last endeavour particularly pissing the silent giant off, he’d needed some time to lay low, let time and space things smooth over a little, though somewhere deep down he knew for certain the silent killer kept grudges. It was nothing he couldn’t adapt to, everyone had their weaknesses, their flaws, small things he could expose and pick at to make them bend, change, however he wanted. He preferred the challenges, the wild spirits, the ones who didn’t simply fold but fought back. The shape was a perfect balance on the fine line between complacent and vicious. 

Still it didn’t stop him from attempting to stay undetected in the realm, when his patience wore thin with the teenagers at Ormond he’d sneak into the Haddonfield house as far from the Myers house as he could. He felt he’d been blessed when this particular house had an attic not yet rotted through, the other houses were a disgusting mix of damp rot and sharp broken away boards. It wasn’t like the shape kept surveillance on his realm, the Myers house was off limits and that’s all he seemed to take offence to intrusion. He did seem more in tune with changes in the realm though, almost being able to sense when the ghost arrived. Danny knew it was like playing with fire, having to hide each time he entered for a solid few minutes as the ghostly white mask would appear at the upstairs window for a while, staring, almost staring through him as if he was hidden yet seen. He could feel the chill in his bones watching it, unmoving, waiting. 

Each time it would relent and he’d be free to move, ducking between shrubs and jumping back fences to the safe house. He used it as a safe storage where prying legion fingers wouldn’t get into things he would rather keep to himself. He’d almost considered studying some of the blueprints in the old meat packing plant to devise a trap for them if they took his stuff just one more time. Still, the frozen air, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly in the concrete maze, the distant whirr of saw blades and drills and the last threat Amanda had promised him if he even breathed in her realm had kept him from investigating too deep into that death trap. Yet. It wasn’t fair she got to have all the fun toys.

Danny took the first breath of the sweet mid autumn air, cool and refreshing as opposed to some other realms, he had a deep hatred for the swamp and coldwind, it was nothing like the name, the repulsive humidity of the farm made his outfit cling to him. He’d end every trial there exhausted, laced in sweat, the heat near baking his undermask onto him permanently. So much for a realm of eternal night, it didn’t guarantee temperature; it almost reminded him of something, yet he couldn’t quite pinpoint what. He wondered how Michael even coped in those realms in full overalls. 

Speaking of, he looked up to the windows, the shape absent this time, did the killer not detect his presence this time? He slowly crept closer to the Myers residence, his body tingling as if he was prepared to disappear at the slightest sliver of white. Instead, he saw red, the doorknob laced in it with a light glistening trail leading up the stairs to the porch. Unlike a trail of gore after killing, this was dripping, fresh. Was he actually hurt? Danny paused as he reached the door, crouching and slipping underneath the window, slowly raising himself just enough to peek in the bottom right corner.

The figure sat motionless on the couch, his fingers locked in a fist, breathing laboured as he attempted to pull something out of his back, unable to see or reach it properly. Danny knew exactly what it was, glass; it wasn’t always the semi transparent blades lifted from broken car or house windows, sometimes it was sharp rocks, sticks, anything the survivors could grab to retaliate with.

Danny remembered his first rude awakening to the fact some could, in fact, fight back, his shoulder still buzzing from the memory. He’d been lucky it was just a thin, sharp rock; glass and rusted metal seemed to be the worst to be struck with, it’s not like they had a willing sane doctor to remove anything that went too deep so the insult could heal over, so some often turned to others for help removing them. He didn’t think the shape was good with asking for help, the fact he sat alone trying to remove it himself with no success confirmed that.

Danny lowered himself away from the window as the shape turned his glance to it, he wondered if he could even help, the shape still seemed to have a stab first, questions never policy. Still, it would be worth it, he’d already started to grow bored of angering the shape, the thrill of getting chased and hunted was fun but he didn’t want to burn out that small indulgence he had, instead now he wondered, how would the shape respond to kindness?

Danny pondered how he’d even be able to dig out the glass, a knife would do the trick sure but it would cause a lot more pain, he’d be lucky to get out of there in one piece if he just made the problem worse to fix it. His mind searched for alternatives, a memory of the institute popping up, he remembered that place well, it was an interesting realm to hunt in. As the kills replayed in his mind he recalled seeing medical equipment everywhere, some certainly less ethical than others but medical in nature nonetheless. 

Finding that realm was tricky the first time outside of the trials, it often took at least two visits, dependent on the realm itself, just to find his way through the fog and cement it in his mind. Still, at least he knew where to start looking, his first visit there had been an accident involving tripping while exploring the outer forest surrounding the survivor campfire, he’d been looking for shimmers and gaps in the fog sure but he hadn’t expected to stumble into one in such an ungraceful manner.

He’d made a cut in the spidery tree roots nearby, he marked things often, a personal tracking system so he could easily find his way between realms, his gloved fingers traced the nearby tree, finding one of his hidden engravings. It was definitely where he’d last found the institute. He glanced around looking for the characteristic shifting, the air almost jittering, out of place, it was an easy indicator for access points to the fog. A faint shimmer caught his eye a few steps to the left of his marking, hidden between some overgrown trees, their gnarled calloused branches hanging low, reaching for it.

The breath seethed venomously from his lungs as he emerged from the fog, his skin alight with pain, it seemed to get easier with each time he entered a realm but this one still fresh, making it nothing but painful and unfamiliar. A shrill cry distracted his thoughts from the pain, there wasn’t any way a trial would be going on here, he was still trying to figure out how to enter trials consistently. The scream was more unsettling knowing that. He didn’t care, an itching impulse to find out nagged at him but he knew it was a perfect distraction for the doctor while he crept around undetected collecting supplies. 

Danny carefully made his way through the desolate halls, peeking in each room, a haunting mix of x rays, autopsy reports and lifeless surgical silver adorning the walls. A spidery sensation crawled under his skin with each second in the realm, the buzzing electricity showering sparks overhead making him jump. The sight of a surgical tray a welcome relief, he quietly picked up the forceps and slipped them into his coat before searching for the other materials, his eyes drawn to the nearby cabinet, he had a feeling that’s where fluids, gauze and bandages would be kept. The static crept into his ears, giving him a gradually worsening headache.

Buzzing laughter echoed up the hall, drawing closer with each second. Danny knew he had to leave, he had no desire to be caught and tortured. He assumed the doctor had free reign in his own realm, visitors enter at their own risk like any other. He wondered if they already knew he was there, he knew electricity bowed to the killers' will. The building breathed, the monitors watched and electricity was the blood; the doctor himself the cold, twisted black heart at the centre tying the madness together. 

He crept into the darkened corner behind a nearby medical bed, crouching and fixating on each sound, the footsteps and breaths as they passed, mentally cursing as he realised the killer was now close to where he had to exit and knowing he’d have to sneak past. He slowly drifted through the hall, his curiosity drawing him closer to the danger as he heard muffled speech, the doctor appearing to talk to himself. 

His twisted sparking figure was hunched over an inanimate body, their eyes comatose and glassy. Danny knew they wanted to scream, but they couldn’t, their eyes speaking wordless horror as they locked solemnly on him. He tore his glance from theirs and continued on, the buzzing echoing laughter creeping down the hall behind him. It wasn’t real, killers were unable to take survivors, this one's features were difficult to distinguish behind the wires, metal and screws buried deep in their skull, but nowhere close to any he’d seen in the trials. Like most of the realms it was likely influenced by the killer's psyche, their desires and intentions, the doctor sure was an interesting one, the kind of person that made even Danny’s skin crawl.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he returned to the communal grounds of the forest that surrounded the campfire, as much as he liked to learn and sneak into new realms Lerys had never agreed with him and he didn’t mind that at all. The chill dissipated around his body as he stepped into the suburbia, the nearby lamppost light somehow flickering, encased by dust and spears of broken glass. He regarded it curiously for a moment, realising what it meant. There wasn’t much point in hiding this time, after all he came with good intentions for once, or at least he’d make it seem. It was more a social experiment, he was curious about how the shape would respond to kindness. Of course it was still fun to be chased, hunted, stalked and rile up the killer when he could, but the killer was no longer furious, more indifferent, like it was just business as usual by this point and he hated it. Indifference was more of a poison to him than anything. All it required to cure was a new approach.

He slowly crept soundlessly up the stairs to the Myers residence, the door unlocked, he took a breath and pushed it open, his body almost refusing the bold movement. There was no reaction as he walked inside, he was still apprehensive, it felt so strange to not be crouched or hiding, just walking in as casually as if he was coming home from work. Discarding the thoughts he noticed more drops of blood leading into the main room. He followed, turning the corner to see the shape gripping his bloodied shoulder, various shards of glass digging into the flesh. 

The killer turned his glance to the intruder despite not making a sound or movement to attack. Danny raised his hands preemptively “I'm not here to fight. I’m here to help.” He could feel the shape’s glare focus on him judgingly “You’re not going to get that all out by yourself, are you?” He gestured to the wound, he had to break the ice between them, offer a reason to allow him to approach.

Michael turned away again, blood dripping between his fingers and soaking deep blue to a ghastly bruised red. Danny took the cue that he was okay to approach, still watching his step as he drew closer, there was no guarantee the shape wouldn’t turn violent especially while injured. Danny paused, now directly in front of the shape, still surprised he hadn’t been stabbed yet, his attention focused on the blade in the killer's right hand. Cautiously, he reached out to touch the wound, the killer jolting back defensively. 

“I can’t help if you don’t let me try.” He sighed, exasperated. Michael’s glare was still focused on him, he didn’t have any reason to trust but each movement made the glass dig deeper, stinging as it attempted to heal only to be cut open again with each movement. Danny reached for the overall zip, slowly pulling it to the killer's mid waist, the extent of the damage now visible, the glass had shattered, there were multiple fragments laced through the flesh. 

“I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt.” Danny tried to hide his amusement, glad to be wearing his mask in the moment. Michael begrudgingly complied, slipping off the black t shirt, the blood now weaving down his back and dripping between his shoulder blades. Danny touched the wound to examine it, the killer flinching instantly to pull away. “You like being difficult don’t you?” His voice weary as he anticipated how difficult the shape would make the whole thing. 

He retrieved the supplies from his coat setting them down on the nearby side table, Michael staring at them curiously. Danny retrieved the tweezers, grasping the first shard carefully, slowly increasing the pressure to pull it free. “Stop tensing, you’ll only make it hurt more.” He tutted, wiping the first wound and watching it close, the orange glow fading from within. 

Michael huffed, his fist still clenched and body rigid. Danny continued taking out the larger shards, each sliding out with ease once he had convinced the killer to relax and breathe. He tilted his head, regarding the remaining few pieces, they were embedded deeper, he knew they had to be removed but considering how Michael had reacted to the easy shards he knew it only got harder. 

The tweezers weren’t enough, he needed to leverage something under the shard to pull it out enough to grab with the tweezers, his thoughts drifted to his knife, it was unlikely Michael would let him but his back was to him; he didn’t have to know how it was done, only that it was done. Danny quietly slipped a blade out of its sheath, testing its edge and putting it to the wound, the shape’s fingers locking in a crushing grip around the chair arm, Danny swore he could hear the wood splintering while being glad that it wasn’t his bones. 

He pushed the blade in deeper, spilling more blood down pallid flesh, he could feel the resistance as the tip of the blade hit the edge of the glass, tilting the tip to nudge the shard from the muscle. He jolted as Michael grabbed his hand, crushing hard with a vice grip causing his grip on the blade to slip and Michael to crush more. Danny seethed breaths through gritted teeth “What are you, five?! You’re sure acting like it.” His bitter remark was met with a silent glare, the grip slowly releasing, his fingers still alight with pain. He sighed, rubbing them. “I get that it hurts but you need to stop. Just let me do this.” 

Despite the shape’s protests the incident had loosened the shard enough to be taken out with the tweezers. He dropped the bloody glass on the table, aligning his blade with the last piece and driving it deeper slowly, Michael’s breathing seethed as the knife pierced into his shoulder. Danny tugged the blade edge upwards, releasing the final shard, the wound sealing with a seam of fire as he removed it. 

“See, doesn’t that feel better?” Danny sighed, not expecting so much of a tantrum from an otherwise silent and complacent killer; his hand still aching as he dropped the last piece of glass and wiping the blood from his knife and gloves. Michael pulled his shirt back on, not caring to clean the rest of the blood, and zipped up his overalls, rising to his full height over the shroud and drowning him in his cold shadow. “Anyway, I’m sure you can handle cleaning up. I’ve got a trial to get to. Glad to help, Michael.” Danny waved and turned to leave before his welcome was overstayed, the silent killer watching him go, his body language softer than Danny had seen before. 

He turned back as he was at the end of the street, the shadowed figure of the shape watching from the window. He didn’t pursue, or chase him out of the realm like usual, he just watched, almost seeming grateful for the assistance. Danny imagined he would normally just ignore the grievance and continue on despite the pain. If anything now he had the shape’s attention on more than one level, and one less stab wound in his ribcage.

——


	9. Change

The lone street lit up in flashes, interchanging hues of blue and red, it had been a while since the police car had been active in his realm outside of the trials. The car itself lied motionless, a rusted, wounded beast, decaying and falling apart, the rubber tyres white charred with age and chipping away. Still, somehow, the light turned overhead, the siren distorted, slowed and off pitch. Michael stood there for a moment watching the light turn in the dusted globe. 

It stopped as suddenly as it had started, a familiar feeling knotting in his gut as he turned back to the street. A few strange drops trailed up it, not like blood, much brighter, it glistened in the moonlight. He knelt down, touching the fluid, it pulsed and burned with an orange glow, he wiped off his fingers instantly on his overalls. It burned, not like fire, more like a chemical, a poison, yet it hummed as if it were alive. He clenched and flexed his fingers, the vile liquid stirring something volatile within, strange and unfamiliar. 

His eyes trailed the drops, they seemed to stagger, a similar trail to if someone had a broken nose and was swaying, a bloody path left behind them. Michael curiously followed it, he’d never seen the liquid before...or, had he? He recalled a new killer had come into the fog, staggering and snarling, dripping with a viscous orange liquid. Michael’s brows furrowed at the thought, he’d already had to deal with the ghost trying to intrude, had the alchemist also crept in unwelcome? 

The trail stopped at a house at the far end of the street, the furthest from the Myers house. He might not have noticed at all without the bright orange trail leading to the intruder. He slowly pushed the door open, it creaked and groaned as he stepped inside. The floorboards were laced with more vicious sprays of the liquid, it lingered over every surface, lighting the room with an ominous orange glow. The couches were torn into, ripped apart, everything knocked over and scattered as if a hurricane of fury had hit the room. 

Small fragments of dust fell softly, dancing in the moonlight that filtered in the doorway, the movement drawing his eye to the staircase. The stairs were chipped and broken, with the glowing trails spilled across them and leading up into the darkness. He closed the door behind him, he had no problem with the dark or what lurked in it, if anything he hoped it would trap the intruder inside with him. He didn’t take intrusion into his own realm lightly. Michael tightened his grip on his knife and slowly climbed the stairs, careful to feel out each gap and to not alert whoever or whatever he was hunting. 

As he reached the top he noticed the gashes in the drywall, peeling wallpaper torn open with orange fluid in the wake, it looked as if a wild animal had attacked it, scratches etched deep in the wooden floor and burning fluid covered every inch. They seemed to stop at the main bedroom, the door hanging ajar, broken off its top hinges. He turned the corner expecting to find the creature, nothing. Various newspaper clippings and photos were sprawled across the floor, he titled his head curiously as he looked over the collection. He’d never really checked the other houses that often, wondering how long this had been here. The collection of clothes and other items confirmed something had been living here, or at least partially residing. 

He turned, surveying more notes pinned to the walls in barely legible writing, especially in the darkness; the only light in the room filtering in poorly from a dust stained window facing the street. Michael listened intently, waiting for movement, anything, the trail outside was fresh, the intruder had to be here. The closet; he knew all too well it was a preferred hiding spot. As he turned to it a flicker of orange caught his eye, his mask shifting as he was thrown back to the floor with intense force. His head ached as the ringing subsided in his ears, he’d dropped his knife in the impact.

As his vision steadied he saw the creature looming over him, the glowing liquid pulsing beneath the flesh, familiar yet unfamiliar. It’s breath rattled, each slow and arduous, it was struggling, suffering and filled with primal rage. The creature regarded him viciously, liquid dripping from its face onto Michael’s mask, he could feel the heat through the cold latex, grimacing as it trickled closer to his eyes. A flicker of silver caught his eye just in time, a serrated blade in their hand. He grappled the attacker, throwing them off and managing to get to his feet as they recoiled, throwing him against the window with force; the glass shattering and digging into his shoulder. Michael grimaced, pulling a long thin shard from his skin and returning his gaze to the killer.

In the full moonlight he saw its full form and recognised it. It was the ghost, but disfigured, changed. Strange leathered appendages of stretched skin draped from the killers shoulders, resembling wings, the veins throughout visible from the light bleeding through the window. As the killer took another step forward into the light he saw the gaping wound in the ghosts stomach, organs barely hanging in place; ribs now sharp exposed spikes, his skin pallid and veined, having grown over his shroud in some places. The mask seemed to ooze and pulse as if alive, in the pale moonlight he saw the hollow eye sockets, the eyes and face melted, now indistinguishable from the mask. He wondered how it even saw anymore. Maybe it didn’t need to. It wasn’t looking at him, not directly, it tilted its head occasionally, it was listening. It’s ears compensating for what the serum had taken.

The creature lunged at him, a deep guttural growl in its throat as it attacked, blade arced to strike. Michael caught the blade bearing arm, his back pushed back against the shattered window frame. The pain increased as the killer pushed him further onto the glass shard. He gritted his teeth, seething breaths between them as he pushed back, his arms trembling, the ghost had never overpowered him before. He could feel the heat radiating off its distorted face as it snarled, it wanted to kill him, it knew nothing else, not now. He shoved the glass shard into the exposed guts, twisting it, spilling repulsive orange fluid over his arm. The killer didn’t even flinch.

Michael released the glass and joined both his hands against the killer's single arm, threatening to plunge the jagged blade into his chest. His muscles burned, the strength was intense, the glass digging into his back distracting him from using his own full strength. He turned to the side, barely dodging the concentrated strike as it dug into the window frame. The creature removed it effortlessly, lunging for him again, the breathing and snarls seemed inhuman, feral, whatever the liquid was it had not only warped his body but his mind too. 

He used the force of the lunge against the ghost, throwing him through into the closet with a harsh crack as the wood splintered from the impact. Michael quickly grabbed his knife as the killer crawled out, unfazed. He didn’t want to take chances anymore, the first strike he buried his knife deep into the ghost's neck, more orange serum oozing from the wound. Again the killer didn’t react to the insult, jamming his own serrated blade into Michael’s gut and pulling the kitchen knife out of his neck, throwing it aside as Michael staggered back against the bed stand. Michael pressed a hand to his stomach, blood pooling between his fingers, the pain intensified by the serum from the blade now laced deep within the wound, it had been a while since he’d tasted his own blood on his tongue. 

A sharp stabbing pain lodged in the front of his brain as he stumbled back against the nightstand, trying to retain his balance. The ghost wasted no time closing the distance, grabbing him by the throat, the grip crushing, and slamming him against the wall, breaking chunks of plaster from it, papers shaken loose beside them and fluttering to the ground. It felt surreal, usually he could kill or overpower the ghost easily, this was different, now that they were closer he could see the syringe in the killers back. It was the alchemists doing, it was identical to his own syringes. Michael gritted his teeth at the thought, he knew the uncomfortable feeling in his gut about that creature was right, he’d avoided it more so than any other killer since it arrived. 

He grappled the ghost once more, pinning him to the ground and gripping tight to the syringe, pulling viciously, the distorted cries from the ghost sickening, grating and inhuman as its body convulsed. Michael pulled the syringe out entirely, glowing liquid weeping from the puncture as he threw it to the ground and stomped it with force, his hands burned, marred with blood and serum. 

The ghost seemed to still for a moment, it likely wasn’t a cure, maybe there wasn’t one. Michael now wondered what deprivation would do. The blight seemed to crave it intensely, removal was the closest thing he could imagine to fixing it. It wasn’t surprising to know the entity had allowed that creature to experiment, it seemed to make the killers stronger, more feral, less reason and more vicious. The ghost had never had an issue with killing, if anything he was one who enjoyed it, it would be unlikely the entity would will this; he knew this was likely just another personal experiment for the alchemist. 

Michael moved back as the ghost attacked again, still twitching and strange in his movements, uncontrolled and instinct driven. Michael released his hands from his own leaking wounds to stop the attack, he knew he wouldn’t die. He’d observed and tested what killed most and yet it never seemed to do the same for him, he could be stabbed, burned, strangled, it didn’t matter in the end, nothing here mattered.

Still, he knew he’d pass out soon, that was the one inevitable end if he pushed it too far, the corners of his vision were already darkening, his arms straining and shaking as he fought back against the ghost. Eventually they gave out, the killer pinning his arms to the floor and leaning in close, Michael could feel the liquid dripping onto his mask and exposed neck, seeping into his clothes and burning through.

The serrated blade cut open his overalls with ease, exposing the wound on his stomach, blood spilling down his sides. Michael felt increasingly dizzy as the world spun, the world seeping away from him as he felt the touches explore his skin, familiar yet more hostile, more driven, more instinctual. It wanted to tear him apart.

He felt sickeningly ambivalent, his body in pain, akin to being on fire, yet as the killer met blade and flesh once more he couldn’t stop it. He couldn’t even bring himself to move anymore as his eyelids flitted down against his will, his vision blurring in and out of focus as he watched the melted mask draw in closer, the hollowed eye sockets seemed to stare through him, it was listening to his breathing, waiting for something. Michael stared back as long as he could, fighting the fatigue and losing as his eyes slowly drifted shut, his body finally giving out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feral Danny that relies on hearing only because his eyes are melted was a thought as soon as that blighted skin came out. I might revisit the blight thing some time, I find it interesting.
> 
> Also I’m actually working on the next few chapters for once, I just thought it was more important to get these ones that have been sitting there for over half a year edited and posted before getting lost in something new again. I hope there was something to enjoy in this, until next time
> 
> ...Did I mention how terrifying post chapter being right next to the edit chapter is? It’s been so long I almost forgot about it.


End file.
